The Garnet Snitch
by Shadow Dragon
Summary: He had it all: the perfect bachelor pad, great friends, a Quidditch career any first-year ever dreamed of-and weekends free. Until Ginny Weasley came back into his life, Harry was quite happy to be alone. But if you play with fire, you get burnt. DONE!
1. Gem in the Wine

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all affiliated ideas, notions, bananas, whatever--they're not mine. They're JKR's. And she's a genius.

A/N: So I tinkered with this story for quite awhile before I even thought about taking it somewhere. And then I realised that I enjoyed writing it. So here it is, my very own gift to you. I hope you like it as much as I do.

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Chapter One: Gem in the Wine

The red sparkled like a garnet or…Harry Potter's most recent train of thought derailed in frustration as it realised that it did not have enough memory to continue on. One square hand held the wineglass aloft as one green eye scrutinised it in the light of a chandelier, searching the separate glitters and sparkles for some form of an answer.

"No one's poisoned your wine, Harry," Fred, or maybe it was George, said from Harry's left. Startled, Harry lowered the glass and looked at his friend (mentally affirming that it was George, not Fred) rather guiltily. In truth, he had been looking for exactly that—before the colour of the wine had trapped his interest, at least. George, however, just laughed affably. "What? You can't possibly be afraid that I've slipped one of our 'products' into your wine yet. Everybody's much too sober to enjoy it—and besides, I don't drop to such crass levels at parties. That's Fred, and don't you forget it!" With a wink and a pat on the shoulder of Harry's nice suit jacket, he minced off to mingle with potential sponsors.

Harry had had very little idea that in sponsoring the twins' joke shop, he would be dragged to all sorts of "white collar" dress parties. At first, he had tried to plead out of such formal affairs, but the twins insisted. Having Harry Potter to show for their efforts was extremely good publicity, and the twins liked to play this card whenever possible. "It can't fail!" Fred had laughed to Harry once. "Whether you like it or not, people will always swoon at the feet of the Boy-Who-Lived!"

Which was why Harry was currently in the ballroom of a very wealthy Emma D. Barnaby, a leading model in wizard fashions, clutching a glass of red wine and trying not to appear utterly bored.

The invitation had ordered Muggle attire, which certainly came as no problem to the Muggle-raised young man. Knowing the nature of such guests, Harry had chosen a white jacket with neutrally black pants, his undershirt and tie black as well. The expensive Muggle clothing had hardly caused a smudge of dust wiped away from the fortune he had been building, either. Over the past few years, Harry had dabbled in investing in several growing businesses in the wizard world (especially those that promoted Muggle-wizard relations, in honour of his best friend). His income from the twins' joke shop alone was enough for a family of four to live more than comfortably. With his Quidditch career on the rise, he certainly had everything, it seemed. So maybe the columns talking about his active dating life were few and far between, but he was not wont to complain.

The ballroom all around him was decorated rather expansively, with different tropical flowers covering many of the flat surfaces. Couches and other comfortable seating arrangements had been set up at random about the room, and there was a large dance floor. Couples were already converging on that, Harry noticed as he took a sip of wine. Tonight, he was fortunate enough to be dateless, for the twins had stopped conniving and setting him up on blind dates a long time before.

A portable bar had been set up in one corner, and several businessmen were mingled about that area, holding glasses of expensive liquors and wines at rest while they talked in enticing terms. For all his business ties, Harry would never quite understand the talk of businessmen; he was content to leave that sort of haggling up to Fred or George. The twins had a penchant for gleaning the very last Knut from a business deal. Indeed, Harry spotted a flash of fire-orange in the group of businessmen—Fred was probably closing on yet another potential deal.

"Not too bored, Mr. Potter?" asked a heavily-accented voice, interrupting Harry's search of the bar-area. Dieter Reiss, first-string Beater for Germany's national Quidditch team, moved into Harry's line of vision, smiling broadly.

"At a grand occasion as this, Herr Reiss? Certainly not!" Harry replied, smiling openly as he shook the other man's hand. Although the two were bitter enemies on the Quidditch pitch, fighting for the European Cup the year before, a sort of friendly camaraderie existed. Dieter Reiss was certainly not bitter in the least that England had advanced into the semi-finals; as a matter of fact, it had been none other who invited Harry out for a consoling drink when England had been smashed by Switzerland.

"None of that 'Herr Reiss,'" Dieter admonished, clucking at the Seeker. Although he was a burly man, he was a good four centimetres shorter than the younger man. "Tonight, we are but equals, Mr. Potter!"

"Call me Harry, then," Harry replied in kind. Inwardly, he was grateful to see a fellow Quidditch player. Dieter was somebody he would never have to wile away with petty conversation. "How's Germany getting on this year? Fourth in the league?"

"Fifth, but that won't last long." A sparkle arose in Dieter's brown eye, causing Harry to crack a grin of his own. The stocky German could lift anybody's spirits with his own infectious smiles. "Bulgaria still has Krum for an advantage. Flattened us. Most unfortunate." He shook his head and took a long sip from his drink. "However, we have a match against Spain coming up, and their first-string Keeper is on—what do you say? Maternity?—leave. Delayne. Remember her? Their second-string is good, but no match for our Chasers."

"Really?" Harry's eyebrow arched up, his smile teasing. Before he could offend Dieter, however, he shook his head. "I'll have to remember to send flowers to Delayne, then." His grin widened when he noticed a rather slim young woman waving at the pair of them. "Isn't that your wife there, Dieter?"

Dieter nodded. "She must be back from—how do you say it? Oh, yes, _powdering her nose_." The men shared a conspirator's grin before shaking hands once again. "It was nice seeing you, Harry. Until next time?"

"If I don't see you before, I'll see you on the pitch, Dieter." Once Dieter had returned to his wife, Harry took a sip of his wine and wandered off to find his way into another conversation. He was, after all, present at this rather dressy occasion to promote Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, as made obvious by the golden "WWW" stitched into the lapel of his jacket. He headed to where a group of rather subdued individuals was talking in quiet voices, smiling and introducing himself easily. Being such high-class people, very few gaped at him. However, that did not mean that he was not grateful when Fred came and pulled him away, freeing him from the mindless small talk.

"Having a good time?" the Weasley asked through a smirk.

"Time of my life, let me tell you." Harry shook his head, trying to keep his expression polite. "Have you amassed any more for the till of the shop?" he asked in a quiet voice, thinking that Fred had probably drawn him away to talk business. When they weren't inventing, the twins were plotting.

"Harry, Harry, Harry," Fred chided loudly. Several nearby people turned with questioning expressions, prompting Fred to drop his voice. "Let's leave business to be discussed back at the shop. C'mon, there's somebody I want to introduce you to!" It was all Harry could do to suppress his groan.

The one person Fred wanted to introduce Harry to turned into two more people, and then three more, and then a great number more. It seemed that everybody wanted a piece of Harry Potter's time nowadays. Eventually, Harry's head started to spin, forcing him to withdraw politely from a conversation about Galleon bonds. He immediately headed to the bar area and washed down the wine with one of the glasses of water sitting out on a tray.

Seeing that Harry was alone, George broke away from the group of businessmen he was entertaining and moved over to where Harry was lounging, trying to assail the pain in his head with a glass of water. "Getting to be too much?" George asked sympathetically, one eyebrow raised above the other.

"Just a long day, that's all," Harry lied, grateful that he had been around aristocrats long enough to learn how to lie like one. "I should be fine in a few minutes."

"Why don't you take a spin on the dance floor instead of brooding, then? Some female company might be of help," George suggested, and Harry barely had time to register the twinkle in his eye before the shorter man turned away.

Before George could go too far, however, Harry secured his arm. "I don't want you and Fred meddling in that area of my life!" he hissed under his breath. "How many times have we gone over this?"

George's look was hurt, but Harry knew it wasn't sincere. "What do you take me for, Potter? I'm just after finding you a dance partner, that's all!" His wide-eyed looked was the picture of innocence, if innocence sported orange hair and freckles. "It's all entirely innocent, I swear!"

Harry personally thought that flying purple camels would overtake the skies of Peru before George Weasley was 'entirely innocent,' but he released his friend's arm. People were starting to eavesdrop, forcing Harry to sigh gustily. He had never been fond of aristocrats. "Do your worst," he allowed begrudgingly, and turned back to his glass of water for any solace.

There was no doubt in Harry's mind that the twins were in this together. Indeed, George tossed Fred a nod and returned to his conversation while Fred sneaked away, obviously up to something. Harry watched his friend until the red-haired man was out of sight, his green gaze suspicious. One of the reserve Chasers for Puddlemere United flagged his attention down, forcing him to withdraw his glare from the twins and make irritating small talk about the upcoming semi-finals. He had played two years with the Chudley Cannons, at Ron's bequest, and so was familiar enough with the set-up to use the same jargon that the Chaser was using. When Fred caught his eye again, Harry gratefully excused himself, and wandered over the co-owner of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes.

"Was Perks all that interesting?" Fred asked, handing Harry a new glass of red wine.

"Perks? Was that his name?" Harry wondered aloud, downing half of the wineglass. "I was wondering."

He scowled inwardly as Fred chuckled at his words. The twins had a memory for names, it seemed—names and ways of revenge. "Yeah. Gregory Perks. Had a sister—Susie-Anne? Sally-Jo?—in your year, I believe."

"Sally-Anne. A Ravenclaw, I think." Glancing over at the enthusiastic Chaser, Harry realised that the two must have narrowly missed playing each other on the Quidditch pitch at Hogwarts. He scrutinised the other man under the guise of taking a drink from his glass. Really, he could see very few similarities between Gregory and Sally-Anne Perks. "Pretty young, isn't he?"

Fred's answer was a shrug as he turned away from Gregory Perks and surveyed the room. "If my sources are correct, he was recruited straight out of Hogwarts. Main reason why Ravenclaw smashed Gryffindor in the cup after you left. Never mind about that, however. Have you met the hostess of the party?"

Harry answered that he had, at the very beginning of the evening's event. Emma D. Barnaby was a very nobly bred witch, born into the wealth like the Malfoys were. Unlike the Malfoys, however, the Barnaby family believed in wizard-Muggle relations. In fact, Madame Barnaby's brother-in-law was a Muggle who often associated with the Creevey brothers, if Harry wasn't mistaken. Harry mentioned this to Fred, who threw his head back and laughed in disbelief. "The very same Creevey brothers from Hogwarts?" he asked. "Wasn't one a mere second-year in my last year?"

"Colin was a year younger than _me_," Harry pointed out. "Dennis was a few years younger—never seen such a tiny first-year in my life." The thought of Hogwarts always made him smile fondly, despite the darkness of the last few months.

"Well, he's taller than you now," a new voice, decidedly female, joined their conversation, and Harry turned slightly to see a red-haired woman walk up. Had her hair not been so bright, her simply-cut black cocktail dress would have allowed her to pass of for any other young woman at the party. Harry blinked up at her hair, and then down at his wine in quick succession, quite startled. When he looked back up at the woman's face, his brow lowered slightly—he had seen those eyes before…

"Harry, may I reintroduce my baby sister, Ginny Weasley, back from her tour of the world? Ginny, I'm sure you remember Harry—world famous Quidditch player and whatnot," Fred said, beaming proudly as he laid a hand on Ginny's shoulder.

Harry's aloof expression decomposed. "You're joking," he said without thinking. When Fred and Ginny looked at him with the same expression Ron used for questioning, he actually floundered for words. "_Ginny_? Wow…just, just wow! The last time I saw you, you were—well, shorter! And all elbows!"

Even as Harry uncharacteristically slapped a hand over his mouth, Ginny's look turned perverse. Her features had definitely changed from the bony, undernourished-looking girl she had always been to the soft angles of a young woman. It was really no wonder that Harry had not recognised her. "Trust you to bring _that_ up." Her voice alone caused Harry to blink; somewhere, Ginny had lost her accent to what appeared to be a mix of Australian and American accents. The effect was a very strange one. Rolling her eyes at him, Ginny turned to Fred. "Is he always this eloquent, or is this a recent acquisition?"

Fred, meanwhile, was frowning thoughtfully at Harry. "He's usually quite the smooth-talker, actually," he remarked to Ginny, causing Harry to mimic Ginny's action and roll his own eyes. "You really must have thrown him off. Must be the yank accent." He clapped Harry genially on the shoulder. "Watch your step—grown-up or not, she's my little sister. In fact, why don't you ask her to dance?"

And like a wisp of smoke, he vanished.

Making a mental note to murder the twins the next time he had a machete and a good alibi handy, Harry turned to Ginny. "Well," he said, clearing his throat, "now that I've stuffed my foot into my mouth and made a huge fool of myself, I should apologise. I'm sorry."

There was an untrusting element in Ginny's look that nearly threw him off of his course. Finally, the youngest Weasley sighed and said, "Well, it's not like I haven't had that reaction before. Apology accepted." For a moment, Harry thought he saw a flicker of nervousness in the brown eyes. It must have been his imagination, for Ginny was the very picture of confidence in one blink. "Well, are you going to ask me to dance?"

The question jolted Harry enough so that he physically jumped. Recovering quickly, he said, "Only if you tell me what you've been up to all these years."

Windfalls after Harry's seventh year at Hogwarts had allowed Mr. and Mrs. Weasley to live comfortably, but the notion of giving up the Burrow had never crossed anybody's minds. The old, dilapidating house still stood as a beacon of childlike innocence to Harry. Visiting was almost like going back in time to when Ron wasn't in the M.L.E.S. and the twins weren't rolling in Galleons. Harry was almost like a seventh Weasley son; with the family expanding like it was, he definitely wasn't intruding on anything. Still, circumstances had worked out to where he had not laid eyes on Ginny Weasley for five years.

"I fear it'll be rather boring to a hotshot Quidditch player like yourself." Ginny's voice was dry, but Harry could detect the slightest bit of the Ginny he remembered from Hogwarts creeping into the cutting tone.

Harry held up a finger, intrigued despite himself. Ginny was becoming an enigma into her own right, and curiosity was drawing him in. "I highly doubt that you are. Boring or not, I want to hear, so would you like to dance?"

It was probably a fluke that he even knew how to dance. In the days when the twins had not yet sparked the chain that ignited Weasley's Wizard Wheezes into a world-encompassing enterprise, and the off-season when Harry was playing with the league, the three of them (and Ron) had been hard-pressed to find things to do. One such afternoon, when business was extremely slow ("Only two Screaming Sickles sold!" Fred moaned. "Not even a Canary Cream!"), the boys had closed up the shop early and headed uptown to find some sort of entertainment in the drowsy summer heat. Dance lessons had initially been George's idea ("For when we start going to those fancy-shmancy type parties all the big business names attend!"), and the four had slogged through a few weeks of lessons with varying degrees of success. Harry usually drew the line at Salsa-dancing, but he _did _know how to tango. He confidently led Ginny to the cherry-wood dance floor, where couples were beginning to collect.

The song was a simple waltz, rather slow to allow the partygoers to converse easily. It did not take much for Harry to take the lead; Ginny was a mediocre dancer at best. "So where have you been?" Harry asked, once they had got the beat of the music down.

Ginny's expression was torn between annoyance and amusement at her poor dancing. "Oh, all over the place," she said airily. "I did a fashion internship in Prague, which landed me a job in the middle of—would you believe it?—Alabama."

"Where?" Geography had never been Harry's strong point.

"In the states, down south. The mosquitoes are so thick there that not even charms can keep them off." Ginny shook her head, obviously reminiscing. The look on her face was a far cry from the adolescent blush Harry remembered so well. Of course, Ginny had stopped blushing at him before her third year, but Harry would always remember the girl who had placed her elbow in the butter dish. He also remembered the summer after his fourth year, when she had finally started talking in his presence, and the resulting spunky persona that had been a fixture in his life at Hogwarts. "Made a lot of good friends there over the two years I was there. The designing company I worked for relocated me to the Australian branch, which put me in an entirely new job altogether. I've been running around the world as of late, planning receptions, galas, shows. I even finished up a wedding about six months back."

"Oh? Anyone I know?"

"Only if you're related to anybody in the grand state of California. I swear, half the state was there—I was panicking more than she was!" Ginny rolled her eyes at the memory, drawing a chuckle from Harry. She entertained him with a few anecdotes from the wedding, barely pausing to breathe. When the songs changed, they easily moved into another dance. "So that's basically where I've been. Nowhere near as impressive as what you've been doing, obviously. Are you still _Witch Weekly's_ Most Eligible Bachelor?"

Harry groaned audibly. "Don't tell me you read that rag, too!"

Now, amusement danced in the brown eyes. "Hardly. Mum still does—she's sent me clippings of everything, especially Percy's wedding. It bothers me that I wasn't able to make it." The amusement died in a storm of annoyance. Harry was fascinated; he had never known eyes to be so vividly emotive before. "So how long is it again before Ron and Hermione tie the knot?"

__

They already have, Harry wanted to say, but bit his tongue. "I'm not really sure," he answered instead, and hated himself for lying. "They're not in very much of a hurry."

"To use Ron's words: 'Stark raving mad, the lot of them.'"

__

I couldn't agree with you more. Not really interested in discussing the complicated love lives of his best friends, he hastily changed the topic to Fred's upcoming marriage to his Hogwarts sweetheart, Angelina Johnson. "Yeah—that's actually why I'm in town," Ginny informed him. "Besides Miss Barnaby's party, I mean. Angelina found out I was staying down in London and called me with a frantic request to help her plan the wedding. Seems the planner had backed out at the size of the wedding party alone. I didn't want to at first—too much Weasley influence—but Angelina was insistent."

"Too much Weasley influence? Nah, that never happens," Harry said dryly, using the same tone she had earlier. He received yet another perverse look and grinned incorrigibly. "I'm surprised that there aren't nearly twenty Weasleys well on their way to Hogwarts!"

"Just because Mum and Dad were rabbits…Need I tell you that Dad was only one of three, and that Mum was an only child? Weasleys haven't always come in litters, you know." Ginny shook her head, sending ringlets into her eyes again. "Speaking of Weasleys, is Angelina even here?"

"Aren't you supposed to know? She's _your _client," Harry teased.

"What with preparations for this fund raising party, I've been so busy that I haven't had time to see her yet. I've only just been in to see Mum today—nearly blew a casket, that woman. Nothing changes around there."

Harry smiled at the thought of tiny Mrs. Weasley 'blowing a casket,' remembering the time Ron and the twins had rescued him in the Weasley's family car. His smile widened as Ginny launched into a description, to which he could only say, "Were you always this talkative?"

Now Ginny's look was a step beyond perverse. "Do you ever _talk_?" she asked in reply. "Honestly, you're the most closed-mouth man I've ever met. You've not strung more than two sentences together the whole time we've been talking." Her eyes narrowed dangerously when he teasingly gave a shrug. "And now you're just doing it to annoy me."

"You're intriguing. What more is there to say?" Harry smiled and was going to let it go at that, but something warned him that he should probably keep talking. "No, really, you don't understand. My life's boring right now—and you're a very refreshing person. With Quidditch practices, and white-tie parties all the time, one just falls into a pattern. I've even found myself conking out at around nine o'clock every night. That's a sin—I'm only twenty-three!"

"How will the rags ever react when they found out?" Ginny mocked. "'Boy-Who-Lived' is really an old man—details inside!'" 

Normally people just skirted around teasing him about the media. Most people seemed to misconceive that the stories truly bothered him. Honestly, though, the only times they bothered him was when they ran out of material on him and started targeting his friends. To hear somebody joke about it was so refreshing that he almost didn't laugh out of surprise. Ginny raised an eyebrow as his steps faltered.

When he finally managed to check his laughter, he asked, "How long will you be in a town?"

"Until the wedding, so around six months or so. Why?" Ginny's expression was now making Harry wonder what exactly had happened to her to make her so cautious.

"Well, if you're going to be here awhile to plan Fred and Angelina's wedding, I should probably take the opportunity—so here goes: are you busy next Friday?" He had no idea what on earth had possessed him to ask the question, but there it was, out in the open.

It took Ginny a long time to answer; she was avoiding his gaze, watching her feet (still moving in the simple waltz step). "Would it be a date?"

He hadn't really asked for a romantic date; Ginny just happened to be the only Weasley he didn't know very well. Somehow, he figured that they were both so busy that scheduling an appointment was probably the wisest way to allot them both some time to get to know each other. Still, he asked, "Would you want it to be?"

"No, I don't think I would." The mistrustful look was back, surprising Harry. There really was quite a lot he didn't know about the youngest Weasley.

"Then of course it wouldn't be," Harry said smoothly, slipping back into what the twins often referred to as "Eloquent Harry" or "Harry on the Pipe." Harry wasn't entirely sure about the last term, as it didn't sound very complimentary, but that was the twins' strange sense of humour kicking in. "It just strikes me that I never got to know you at Hogwarts, and since you're in town, now seems to be as good as ever to make up for lost time."

"Terribly frightened of me back then, weren't you? You never really talked to me much." The sardonic smirk that twisted half of Ginny's mouth was so similar to the smirk Ron usually gave that Harry caught himself staring. "Anyway, I'm staying with a friend, so you're going to have to use a telephone to arrange plans, heaven forbid. The twins have my number."

Harry actually owned a telephone, but he did not mention that. He didn't really want to explain _why_ he owned a Muggle contraption, as he had sworn off of most Muggle things after leaving Hogwarts. "Very well. I'll get it from them later, then."

At least the smile she gave him then was sincere, and not the smile of a party-planner. "Great!" The waltz was ending, and it looked as though Madame Barnaby was approaching the small stage. "It looks as though her end-of-the-evening speech is about to begin—I'd best be off to warn the cooks and waiters to start collecting the leftover food." Before she let go of Harry's hand, she squeezed it once. "It was great seeing you again, Harry. Enjoy the rest of your evening, and I'll see you on Friday."

And like smoke to the wind, she disappeared through the crowd. Even the telltale titian hair didn't help Harry locate her, so, smiling, he went to find the twins at their table. "Great party, wasn't it?" George asked as Harry approached. "What are you grinning for, you happy git?"

"Was your sister always that interesting?" Harry asked as he sat down between the twins. He nodded to the rather petite Quidditch player sitting next to Fred, resplendent in a wine-coloured dress. "'Lo, Angelina, didn't see where you got off to."

"Charity Longbottom grabbed me before I could promote the shop too much." Angelina shrugged apologetically. Harry decided that he did not like the sudden predatory gleam that came into her eyes, as though she had something that she could hold over his head. "Although I see you've caused quite a stir already. Charity said she saw you dancing with Ginny. I imagine the reporters will be going berserk."

Fred captured her hand, playing idly with the long fingers. "I'm sure Harry was dancing with her as a platonic would-be brother, right, Harry?" Coming from Ron, this question would have been a threat, but Harry knew that Fred was just curious. Indeed, George turned sky-coloured eyes on Harry as well, equally curious.

"Sure, Fred," Harry agreed easily, not mentioning that he had set up a date, romantic or otherwise, with Ginny for the following Friday. "It's what friends and brothers do, after all."

*

"Harry—call me when you get back." Ron's voice flooded the tiny kitchen of what most of Harry's personal friends called The Hutch, broadcast by the old-fashioned answering machine that Harry refused to scrap in favour of newer, better technology.

The Hutch was yet another joke invented by the twins. After Hogwarts, Harry and Ron had both gone to live at the Burrow long enough to recuperate from the traumatic battle. When they had moved out, it had been to a small flat near the wizarding sector of London, where Ron would be close to his workplace, and Harry would have animosity. The twins had slept on the couches for a few months, and even Percy had stayed there when he was in the dog house. The amount of Weasleys passing through had been substantial enough to dub the place "The Hutch" in honour of The Burrow.

Years later, Ron had moved out (he still lived there once in awhile for appearance's sake) to his wife's flat, and Harry was mostly off on the road for Quidditch. He kept a spare room for travelling Quidditch acquaintances, should any of them need a place to stay for awhile. If any of them should ask where Harry's flatmate always was, Harry would unequivocally answer, "With a girlfriend as pretty as his, where would you expect him to be?"

He and Ron were _very_ good at keeping up appearances.

Harry frowned now as he deleted Ron's message. The light was still blinking, meaning that he had yet another message on the tape. There was only a small mark of red on the magical call log he had set up beside the telephone stand, which meant that Harry could trust the caller. However, the fact that the log didn't list a name was odd, indeed. Curious, he pushed the "Play" button and sat back, vowing to call Ron once he had listened to his mysterious caller.

"Harry?" Ginny Weasley's melodic voice tumbled into the kitchen. Harry visibly jumped at this; he had not expected to hear from Ginny for at least three days. In fact, he'd expected to put up with a possible fight when he _did _call her. "Oh, I'm sorry, you must not be back from Madame Barnaby's party. I just got in myself—I was hoping that you would be there so that we could talk about a couple of things. I can't say everything over the phone, but there's a third reason I'm in town. It involves you. I know we've got a date on Friday, but can you possibly meet me at the Leaky Cauldron tomorrow? Around noon? If you can't, just call me and let me know. I'm staying with my friend right now. My number is…" The call log recorded the number she rattled off, thankfully, for Harry did not have time to hunt down a quill. "Give me a call. I'm a night owl."

He called Ron first, knowing that the youngest Weasley male was waiting up for his phone call. Hermione answered, and laughed when she heard Harry's voice. "Oh, good. About time you called. He's been pacing like an overprotective mother. Ron, your _boyfriend's _on the phone!"

"I have not been pacing! And he's not my ruddy boyfriend!" Ron's voice was heard in the background only instants before there was the sound of a phone switching hands. Always the blunt Gryffindor, Ron burst out his news immediately. "Harry, bad news. You _have_ to keep away from Ginny."

Harry hadn't been sure what to expect, but it hadn't been this. "What?" he asked a bit haplessly. "Stay away from Ginny? Ron, I know you're trying to protect your baby sister and all, but—"

"She's no more my baby sister than I'm Fred's baby brother. The thing is, Ginny's not here to only plan parties. She's an agent for the Tunnel. She's tracking somebody."

Harry sat down. Hard. The Tunnel was an organisation formed heavily on Weasley influence, although Percy and Charlie were not openly involved. Even Harry was a member, although he did little more than keep up appearances and fund the project at the moment. Very few people knew about the Tunnel; they operated strictly on stealth and secrecy. Nobody knew the full roster, for everybody's protection. They were the underground vigilantes, who fought "the bad guys" and monitored dark activity all over the world. Or, at least, Harry assumed that they now worked all over the world, seeing as Ginny had obviously been running surveillance in America and Australia.

"So I'm not to distract her from tracking this person?" Harry asked, feeling a bit confused.

"Ginny grew up with six boys. She _knows_ how to juggle." Ron's voice was annoyed now; Harry figured it had something to do with his unending clueless ability to ask dumb questions. "We want to keep her low-profile, however. And, well, the thing is: you're a celebrity."

That about cinched it, then, Harry thought to himself rather dejectedly. "Oh," was all he said. "Well, to put it as the Muggles do, that bites."

Ron's voice sounded alarmed. "Harry, you didn't actually _like _her, did you? You two barely talked when we were growing up! Besides, that ridiculous crush on you is long-gone."

Knowing that Ron couldn't see him, Harry shook his head at the wall, quite frustrated that he couldn't figure out why this upset him so much. "It's complicated, Ron. And before you ask, no, I haven't done anything to your sister. I just wanted to get to know her." He stripped out of his "WWW" jacket, tossing that on the back of a chair at the small kitchen table (in everything but appearance, he lived alone, so everything was bound to be small). With one hand he loosened his tie. "How long has she been in the Tunnel?"

"Classified. Sorry, mate." Ron's voice was apologetic. "Either keep away from her, or cover your back extremely well. We can't even have her in any of the rags that are always hounding you. We'll buy off the ones that saw you tonight, but…"

"All right." He would cover his back, Harry knew. If there was one thing that he was better at than Quidditch, it was hiding his identity and covering his tracks. Years of being a Tunnel agent, combined with the Quidditch career every first-year dreamed of, had honed every sense down to perfection, making it _very _difficult to sneak up on the Boy Who Lived. "I'm meeting her for lunch tomorrow. Perhaps we could arrange something."

"I've got a meeting at ten, but Ginny and I can meet for lunch, and happen to have you meet up with us…" Ron trailed off rather hesitantly. "No, even _that's _obvious."

"Maybe you're just paranoid," Harry heard Hermione tease in the background.

"She's right, Ron. I'll just cover my tracks on my own." Harry frowned thoughtfully at nothing, his eyes watching the call log, which was putting his and Ron's conversation into code. "She called me a few minutes ago—I'll just give her a call back and work out some details." Ron grudgingly agreed and they hung up without salutation, as they were known to do. Harry frowned thoughtfully before picking up the receiver once again and dialling in the number Ginny had listed off.

He got an answering machine, surprisingly. "We're either not home, which is likely, or one of us is in the shower and the other is gone. You can, however, leave a message at your own convenience. If you don't want to, that's all right. Thank you for calling Tara Riley and Ginny Weasley's answering machine, and leave a message after the beep, so should you prefer."

The beep nearly deafened him, but he still managed, "Ginny, it's Harry. I was just returning your call. Is it possible that we could meet someplace less conspicuous? I know a good place—got a _friend_ who owns it, if you catch my drift. We could meet at the Leaky Cauldron, still, I just don't want to eat there. Same time, and all. Anyway, sorry I missed you, and I hope to see you tomorrow." He hung up and looked at the phone for a long minute. It only sank in after several moments that he had offered to take Ginny to Tony's, of all places.

The Tunnel had never had more of an ambiguous agent as it did in Tony Kandinsky. For that matter, Harry had never seen anybody who resembled a Muggle refrigerator more, either. Tony Kandinsky had to be the biggest man he had ever seen (apart from Hagrid, who Harry considered to be more than a man), and he only seemed to get bigger with time. With arms and legs that resembled tree-trunks in their thickness, Tony had never had a problem parting the crowds of downtown London, where he kept up a nice under-the-table gambling club in his hole-in-the-wall restaurant. While Tony fed the Tunnel information, they were willing to overlook minor illegal activities on his part. Tony was one of Harry's personal friends; they'd met before Tony's business started. The big man had actually been a bouncer at a pub that Harry, Ron, and the twins had frequented in their more reckless days. Now his pub was a bit notorious for the fights that constantly broke out there.

Harry wasn't sure if this was such a good idea anymore, even if Tony _was _his friend…

* 

The sound of bacon sizzling woke Harry from a light sleep. At first, the Seeker lay there without moving, a trick he had picked up in the year of field work he had spent with Ron, trying to discern his surroundings without letting on that he was actually awake. Once he had confirmed that yes, indeed, he really was in his bedroom in The Hutch, and that he was alone, he rolled quietly out of bed and took his wand from its secured holster on his leg. The trip down the hallway was a short one, so he didn't bother to remain in shadow. Carefully, he edged around the doorway that led to the kitchen, and immediately wanted to hit himself on the forehead.

The prodigal flatmate had returned."Not cooking for your wife anymore, is that it, Weasley? Decided to poison me instead?" Harry demanded, forcing Ron to swear vociferously and jump about half a metre. The tall redhead had been standing in front of the stove, preparing what looked like a full breakfast. "Geez, Weasley, you kiss Hermione with that mouth?"

"Oh, he does more than that," said a third voice, and it was Harry's turn to jump. His best friend's wife was sitting at the small table, The Daily Prophet folded neatly in front of her. Just as Harry was about to protest, Hermione smiled and continued, "But I'm sure you don't want to know about that…I didn't know you were Scottish, Harry."

Harry promptly reddened as he glanced down to discover that he was standing only in his boxer shorts, which were, of course, plaid. Well, he had socks on, to his credit. "I think I'll go change," he told his friends quickly, and disappeared from the room.

"Don't know what the big idea is, mate, prancing around my wife in boxers and trying to scare your oldest pal!" Ron called grumpily as Harry retreated. "I swear, if those great big old paycheques that keep the Hutch up and running didn't contain your name, I'd have ousted you long ago!"

He certainly sounded grouchy, Harry reflected to himself as he selected a pair of khaki pants from his wardrobe and pulled those on. Khakis were inconspicuous—they could go nicely with most robes, and fit in perfectly with the Muggle world. As visiting Tony's took a long trip through London, Harry would need both uses today. Thoughtfully, he chose a hunter green pullover that wouldn't make him stand out horribly. He patted his hair into some semblance of order before joining his friends in the kitchen. "Much as I enjoy the sight of your lovely face first thing after I wake up, Hermione—"

"You'd better not!" Ron growled, half-turning to threaten Harry with a wooden spoon.

"—What brings you to the Hutch?" Harry finished, pretending to duck behind his chair. "Watch out, Weasley!" he teased, grinning widely. "You so much as lay a finger on me, I'll tell your sister!"

Harry imagined that the following grumble from Ron was probably not nice to his ancestors or sexual activities.

Hermione was clearly torn between laughing at their antics and admonishing Harry for his early morning jollity. Needling Ron early in the morning was not a task to be taken lightly, after all. In the end, she just smiled and shook her head. "There's been some news in the Tunnel, thought you might want to know."

Fishing three mugs from the cabinet, Harry asked, "News that will actually interest me, or news that will interest the gold in my pockets?" He poured coffee for the three of them as he waited for Hermione's answer.

"Only you could put it so tactlessly, Harry Potter," Hermione scolded, rolling her eyes like Harry was just another errant schoolboy. "Without your circulating the Quidditch and popularity circuits, the Tunnel would be nowhere near what it is now, and you know that. Just because your position is too dangerous for fieldwork doesn't mean that you're useless." Despite her admonishing words, she nodded her thanks when Harry passed her the coffee.

"What she means is buck up and quit whinging, mate," Ron told him less than charitably, spurring Harry to pour one of the mugs back into the coffee-pot. "Oi, what was that for?"

Ducking out of range, Harry ordered, "Get your own coffee, then, _mate_." He sat down and reached for _The Daily Prophet_, rolling his eyes good-naturedly as Ron grumbled at him once again. Hermione rolled her eyes, but let "bygones be bygones," as the term went. Good-spirited banter between Ron and Harry had become more common as of late. Sometimes, Harry felt like Hermione and the Weasleys were the only people he could speak candidly to, after all. "Anything good in the paper?" he asked Hermione now.

"More on that deal Draco Malfoy is threatening to pull through with the Ministry. Can't believe we actually believed the brat when he said that he had changed sides," Hermione said darkly, taking a long drink of coffee. "At least our agents in his ranks have not managed to detect any signs of Dark Arts, he's just scum."

Harry made an agreeing noise in the back of his throat. "It's a lot less than the damage his father caused," he remarked, scanning the article in question. "Much as I don't agree with demolishing that building, he's not openly bribing anybody."

"Bribery, the lesser of two evils," Ron commented in much the same tone as his wife. He started to dish up the hearty breakfast onto three plates and passed those around. "Don't understand why you didn't let me Stun him that time, Harry. Then maybe the Aurors could have caught him with real evidence."

"That had been planted on him. I don't like the guy any more than either of you, but we can't deny that he was innocent," Harry said in the tone of one who had nearly given up on an age-old argument.

"This time," Ron muttered stormily, pouring himself a cup of coffee and taking a seat at the tiny dining table. "However, that's not the reason we're here, exactly. Why didn't you tell us that your contract was up for negotiation?"

"It's not," Harry said as calmly as he could. Surely, his agent would have been in touch if somebody had so much glanced at his contract. Nonetheless, he flipped to the sports section, idly noting that the Montrose Magpies had once again beaten the Chudley Cannons. "At least, to my knowledge it's not. I've been in the IQL for seven years—I should know when somebody's trying to sell me by now."

"But Harry, it's Teddy Gingham!" Hermione snatched the paper away from Harry and pointed at the picture of a dark, smiling wizard. "King of Quidditch, they call him at work. What he says goes, and he says that your contract's being negotiated."

Although Harry was surprised that Hermione knew something about Quidditch (Ron really must rubbing off on her, he thought ruefully), he felt his throat dry up. "Surely you're joking," he said, shifting nervously. He felt a bit dazed, and knew that he was probably pale. "Why would Teddy Gingham be interested in me? England's doing so well!" He grabbed the paper back and scanned the article, his throat closing up further with each word.

"_Grim News Ahead for the Boy-Who-Lived?_

"_Article by Daily Prophet Correspondent Simon Halloway_

"_Hogsmeade, Scotland—At a conference called yesterday evening, International Quidditch League spokesman Theodore "Teddy" Gingham had bad news in store of England's top Seeker, Harry Potter._

Many know Potter for the defeat of You-Know-Who first as an infant, and then in his seventh year at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, but even more know him for his exceptional Seeking that led him from the unfortunate Chudley Cannons to playing on England's national team. Potter has been playing Quidditch since his first year at Hogwarts, where he was the youngest Seeker in a century to play for the Gryffindor house team.

"Potter's talent has always been exceptional, yes," comments Teddy Gingham about Mr. Potter's abilities. "However, I feel that his prowess is needed elsewhere for now. He's been with England for nearly five years now, and I think that having fresh blood with the team would do the record some good.""

"Fresh blood?" Harry yapped indignantly. "I'm twenty-three, not forty!" He read on, incensed. By the time that he had read the last word, his face had reddened and his fists were clenched. "Why is he doing this to me? I'm the best Seeker we have!"

"Cocky, isn't he?" Ron asked Hermione rather adroitly, his mouth full of egg. Harry's glare told him that he was not helping. Sighing, he hunkered down to business. "We think Teddy Gingham may be working against the Tunnel. Suspected Death Eater, and all."

"Teddy Gingham was a suspected Death Eater?" Harry asked, looking up from the newspaper. "Dark Mark and everything?"

"Hardly." Hermione took a long drink of coffee. "Remember that big Quidditch scandal that they didn't find out about until after our sixth year?" Taking the paper, she tapped the picture of Teddy Gingham once again. The wizard in the picture looked at her, mildly annoyed. "Teddy Gingham, Ulysses Davenport, and who else was it, Ron?"

The leader of the Tunnel was shovelling eggs into his mouth while watching his wife avidly. Harry was not sure that Ron's attention was entirely due to the topic; sometimes the tall redhead would stagger, out of nowhere, and look as though he had just been slammed in the gut by a lorry. It usually took Harry and a couple of close friends to convince him that yes, indeed, Hermione had chosen _him_, and that no, it really wasn't a dream. For all their bickering, it would take Ron several lifetimes _not _to be starstruck by his wife.

"Sam Werner," Ron filled in, swallowing the mass of egg in his mouth. "Oh, yes, and let's not forget dear old Lucius Malfoy." The sarcasm in his tone could bite through ice. "Had the rest of them eating out of the palm of his hand, I bet. Of course, _that _ended when he was arrested." He snorted heavily and returned to eating like there was no tomorrow on the horizon.

Harry nodded. "What were the charges?"

"Embezzlement of funds, naturally. We think that the funds were ending up in the hands of Voldemort himself." Hermione carefully refolded the paper and placed that beside her place-mat, forcing Harry to roll his eyes. He was a relatively neat person, having grown up in tiny spaces with no place to really call his own, but his neatness held no candle to Hermione's organisational tendencies. "Not a Death Eater, but definitely a sympathiser."

Years of living in the wizarding world had taught Harry not to judge character by appearance, so he took the news about Teddy Gingham surprisingly well. He had, after all, only held two conversations with the guy, but they had been after long matches, and mostly focused on exploits he had pulled off during the games. He took the folded paper from Hermione now and looked at the picture, squinting. Teddy Gingham was clearly the focus of the picture, but there were several other wizards in formal robes present within the frame.

Harry frowned. "Hey, guys, check this out." He leaned over and pushed the picture to the centre of the table, where they could all get a good view of it. "The rat's out of the bag."

Ron's expression quickly darkened into anger. "Don't you mean ferret?"

Lurking in the background, strutting, was none other than the face of Draco Malfoy, their old Hogwarts rival.

*

A/N the Second: And now, if you'll hit that review story option, you can tell me what I did wrong!


	2. Diadem in the Dumpsite

A/N: I've got to apologise for my sudden and total disappearance from the fanfic world. Truth is, I've been RP-ing, and it's been an absolute blast. William Cromwell runs an extremely wonderful RP called Salem Institute for Magical Crafts, and my character Crin Dalmeiier has been tearing it up on the Quidditch Pitch. We're always looking for new people, too! Check it out at 

Disclaimer: Characters, situations, etc. seen in this fanfic are owned by the wonderful JK Rowling and Bloomsbury, and Warner Bros. and all of those other fun companies. I'm not here to make money, just to play around and return the toys exactly as I found them.

****

Chapter Two: Diadem in the Dumpsite

Ginny was lurking.

She was perfectly aware of this; she even revelled in the fact as she lurked, like most people took sick, twisted pleasure from the strangest things. For Ginny, the ability to lurk, and lurk well, had always been nothing but a benefit to any cause she was working towards. This was not to say that Ginny was a creepy stalker, for she usually didn't follow people around, but she could be downright ominous when she wanted to be. It was a talent she had made use of after the fiasco in her first year at Hogwarts.

Now, she was using this ability to its fullest, standing in the shadowed corner of the Leaky Cauldron and, well, lurking. The tiny pub was caught in what was obviously a midday rush, for Tom and a nameless waitress were racing around, taking orders and replacing them with food with surprisingly alacrity. Tom had been injured in the war as the result of some sort of Death Eater raid, but his business had survived to thrive. It was a historic monument by now, Ginny reflected, and wizards from all over the world were here to view the splendour of the Leaky Cauldron. She would have taken a table long before, but she knew that Harry wouldn't want to stay for long. When he got there, that is, she thought to herself.

Harry Potter was late.

_Must be all those years he's lived with my brother_, Ginny thought derisively, brown eyes scanning the crowd once again. Punctuality had never been Ron Weasley's theme song. _Honestly, I don't know how Hermione can stand to go over to 'The Hutch.' It must be a total sty all of the time._ In truth, she had never set foot in the house Harry and Ron owned; whenever she was in England, her family tended not to know about it. That was the way Ginny liked life and her family: secretive and separate.

But now she needed her family. Who would have thought a brood of loud, obnoxious, braying Weasleys would come in handy to a woman who was a fashion designer by day and a mercenary by night? Even though they were her own family, Ginny had never thought such a thing could be possible.

She saw Harry before he saw her. The instant he stepped into the Leaky Cauldron, he was accosted by a pair of young wizards, both wearing shirts bearing the logo of England's national Quidditch team. Ginny bit back a smile as he ruffled the hair of the boy on the left as he passed, causing both boys to goggle after him. Harry would never know how he affected most of the population. He spotted her easily and crossed the pub in surprisingly few steps, almost looming over her. She had forgotten how tall he was.

Although there was a smile on his face, it was a bit forced. Of course, she only noticed this when he came within a few steps of her. "What's wrong?" she asked without preamble, seeing the strain between his eyes, mostly hidden by the thick-framed glasses he was never seen without.

The smile disappeared, replaced for the briefest of instants by a surprised expression. However, understanding dawned before long, proving Ginny's theory that Ron had already spilled the beans to be correct. Harry knew at least part of the reason why she back in Europe altogether now. "It's complicated. Ready to go? I've booked us a table at a friend's place. We're lucky to get it—it's Black Jack Thursday."

"But it's Monday," Ginny protested, wondering if she had read the wrong date on the calendar before she had left.

"And it's Tony. We don't ask." Harry led her to the back room and out the side door, which led into a small alley for those who had to Apparate to reach The Leaky Cauldron. "Ron mentioned that you Apparate a lot, so I hope you don't mind…"

"Oh, no, not at all." Ginny shook her head quickly. "I'm usually forced to do Apparation on the spot—as long as I'm not rushed, I'm happy." She shuddered inwardly, remembering one of the last times she had been forced to Apparate in a rush. The end hadn't been pretty. Sure, she had arrived with all of her limbs, but to this day, she was grateful for the bath towel that she had grabbed at the very last moment. Walking around the Department of Investigation in nothing but a towel, and then the prison jump-suit they had afforded her, was probably the most pleasant memory she had of that night. She forced her own smile now, more grateful for the sun dress she was wearing than anybody could know.

"All right. Here's the picture of the place, then." Harry handed her a photograph of a dark alley, with coordinates written on the white space underneath. Ginny studied these quickly, memorising the minor details that always seemed so trivial, and nodded. When Harry nodded back, they Disapparated together. Ginny landed effortlessly, and was incessantly amused to see that Harry staggered upon arrival. He had always had trouble with wizarding forms of travel. "All in one piece?"

Ginny assured that she was. She turned to inspect the alley, immediately gauging all escape routes without really thinking about it.

"Harry Potter! I hope you have a good _excuse _for just popping in my alley, uninvited and unwanted!"

Ginny whirled, wand out. The largest wizard she had ever seen was standing behind Harry, holding him in what appeared to be a choke-hold. Her eyes widened as her fingers automatically tightened about the wand. "Let him go!"

The wizard barely spared her a second look. "'Scuse us, lady, I got business with this runt."

Abnormally tall or not, Harry looked like a toothpick compared to this polar-bear of a wizard. Tree-trunk arms wrapped around the world-famous Seeker, forcing Harry to shake tremendously. Ginny stared at the duo, aghast, as Harry's face slowly reddened. The large, bald wizard holding onto him didn't appear to notice, though. If anything, he was squeezing harder. Ginny was about to delve into the vast array of hexes that she knew when she realised why Harry was shaking. He wasn't having trouble breathing.

He was _laughing_.

"S'all right, Ginny," he managed in between great gasps of laughter. "S'only Tony!"

"I'll 'only Tony' _you_, y'runt!" Tony grunted, lifting Harry clear from the ground. Harry swung about, trying to retaliate, until a wrestling match of sorts was set up. It was clear to Ginny exactly who was at a disadvantage.

"Erm, Tony, sir," she said, subconsciously slipping into the southern drawl that she used to charm gentlemen, "as much as I'm enjoying watching you beat up my date, the fact still remains that he _is _my date and, er, I'd kind of like him back." Seeing no danger from 'Tony,' she holstered her wand and tried to flash the pair of them her best begging smile. Arthur Weasley was the only one who would still fall victim to that charm, but that never stopped Ginny from trying it on her brothers.

"This ruffian?" For a man that looked amazingly like a thug, Tony had a bigger vocabulary than Ginny had expected. Harry, on the other hand, could hardly talk for laughter. "Well, if you insist…" Carefully, he set Harry back on his feet, patting the wayward locks once like one pets the family dog.

Harry immediately collapsed against the wall, face still dyed red from mirth. When he could finally talk, he straightened and said, "Well, I should probably introduce everybody. Tony, this is my lunch date, Miss Ginny Weasley. Yes, she's Ron and the twins' sister, if you were wondering." Ginny nodded, trying not to roll her eyes at the last comment. "Ginny, this is an old friend of mine, Tony Kandinsky. Tony and I go way back. And displays like the one you were witness to are entirely normal, 'cept I usually win."

"The thing most people don't know about Harry Potter is that he is a pathological liar," Tony parried drolly. Ginny stifled a giggle as Harry pretended to tackle the phone-booth shaped wizard. "Anyway, your normal table's reserved, Harry. Just go on in—Jack knows you."

The front of Tony's little club was not any more interesting than the alley alongside and depicted the place to be just another hole-in-the-wall pub in the middle of a nameless sector in London. Inside was not much different: a bar-top, a few tables, what appeared to be some sort of gambling floor, and a few sleazy patrons. Harry led her to a booth far from any of the windows. "Tony runs some illegal wizarding games here, but it's nothing terribly dangerous. Plus, if the Tunnel ever needs a place to meet, Tony'll volunteer in a heartbeat. Great guy, that," Harry explained as they both sat down.

"He seems interesting," Ginny agreed, looking around. The pub was mostly done in dark, dismal colours, but Ginny could imagine that it really came alive at night. Even though it was high time for the lunch time rush, only a few of the other tables were occupied. "How long have you known him?"

"Three, maybe four years." Harry shrugged and leaned back, perfectly at ease for the first time in Ginny's company. He really must have trusted Tony, Ginny realised. Harry, she knew, only relaxed when either Ron or Hermione was present. "He seemed to like you, which is a good thing. Tony's the best judge of character we've got." By 'we,' Ginny realised, he meant the Tunnel. He really was starting to think of Ginny as part of the group, and she had only danced one dance with him. "So what's up? What'd you want to come here to talk about?"

Ginny shook her head tightly, not quite ready to breach the subject yet. _Stop being a coward_, she scolded herself. However, she obviously wasn't in the mood to obey. "It's complicated," she said, unconsciously echoing Harry's earlier words. "You start—what's bugging you? You wouldn't answer me at the Leaky Cauldron. You at least get to explain why you were late. I mean, c'mon, it's our first date—isn't there _etiquette? _I'd hate to think my mum raised you to be impolite."

Harry froze at her words, but slowly managed the barest hint of a smile to take his face. He ducked his head forward rather self-consciously. "You _do _have a way with words, Miss Weasley," he said in a low voice, more amused with himself than anything. "If I'd known that this was going to be our first date, I might've sprung for at least a decent burger or something…"

"You calling our food bad, Potter? _I've_ got a word for you," a new voice joined them. Leaning against the table across from their booth was a wizard that looked as though he belonged in the Slytherin house. Never had Ginny seen anybody who looked so similar to a goblin before. Their visitor, clearly the waiter by the fact that he held a notepad and wore a grimy blue apron, had long, blond hair that had been pulled into a greasy ponytail. Beady black eyes stared out at the pair, dancing wickedly, from underneath the canopy of two caterpillar eyebrows. A pointed nose completed the ensemble, convincing Ginny that they were either talking to an overgrown rat, or a man who needed a shower or just a good swim in a soapy river. "Get out, there's a good word for you."

"Jack, how long were you in school?" Harry asked, feigning concern. "'Get out' is two words."

"Dropped out before I started. What'll ya have, luv?"

Jack looked first at Ginny, who hadn't been aware that there was a menu. "Lunch," Harry answered for both of them, giving the rascally waiter a mock-glare. "Quit picking on my girlfriend." Ginny wondered if he had really meant to say that, or if it was just an act to get Jack to leave them alone.

There was apparently no need for the notepad, for Jack stuffed that unceremoniously into the pocket of apron, grinning rather pointedly at Harry. "Didn't think ya'd ever get one of those, must say," he commented idly, leaning against their table. "Well, actually, I did, I just didn't think ya'd be daft enough t' bring 'er _here_, git! You're lucky the usual crowd isn't here—they'd eat 'er alive."

Harry looked around the tiny shop with interest. "Where'd the usual crowd go, then? Decided they wanted some real food for a change?"

"And that's a hardy, and a 'har har' for Mr. Potter," Jack muttered to nobody in particular, his notepad appearing magically in his hand. He pretended to write a note to himself. "And his girlfriend'll have a sorry piece of ars—"

"Do you _mind_?" Harry interrupted, rolling his eyes. Ginny could tell that he was enjoying the verbal banter just as much as Jack was, despite all of his feigned misgivings. "Aren't you the _waiter_? Can't you go somewhere else and wait, or whatever it is you do? I'm trying to talk to Ginny here—"

Jack's grin turned positively gleeful. "Oh! Discussing future children, are we? Well, the first one, will, of course, have t' be named Jackson, in honour of moi, but I wouldn't protest t' the second being named Burt, and then maybe a Herman. Then of course, Yancy, Douglass, and Wyatt." He ticked names off on long, white fingers. "If you have a girl, I'm sure you could name 'er Jackie."

"Jackson, Herman, Yancy, Douglass, Wyatt, and Jackie?" Ginny repeated confusedly, looking at Harry for guidance. He shrugged, as lost as she was.

"All of my own middle names!" Jack told her, beaming. "My parents were odd sorts, but I forgive 'em. After all, I was the result, and look how blessed y'r lives are today just because of it!" Before Harry could come up with some sort of scathing retort, Jack Disapparated with a _pop!_

"And here I was worried about you meeting _Tony_," Harry muttered, rolling his eyes once more. "Sorry, that was Tony's right-hand man, Jackson Clyde. That's his actual name, but everybody just tends to call him Jack. One of the more interesting characters you'll meet in these parts. Now, what were we talking about?"

"Why you were late. And then I'll tell you why I asked to meet up with you."

Perhaps Harry heard the tremble in her voice, for he gave her the briefest of searching gazes before saying, "Well, I got caught up at—you'll never guess it—Malfoy Manor. Before you ask, no, Draco Malfoy has not got any better since Hogwarts. If anything, I'd say he's worse." He rubbed a hand through his hair, throwing it into further disarray.

Ginny had had a few encounters with the infamous Draco Malfoy during her long days at Hogwarts, the most memorable involving being tied up and a Bat-Bogey Hex, but it was nowhere near severe as her brother and his friends. Sure, Malfoy was a malignant, rat-faced git and he was not above picking on the youngest Weasley, but he mostly stuck around with his older, "more mature" year-mates. Their paths hadn't crossed often, something for which Ginny was still grateful. "I'll believe it," she agreed readily. "What's the little prat up to now?"

"What _isn't _he up to should be the proper question." Harry looked harassed, as though the mere mention of the name Malfoy was enough to fluster him into anger. "He's in league with Teddy Gingham—"

"The King of Quidditch?" Even Ginny, who rarely ever paid attention to the politics of the sport that dominated her brothers' existence, knew who Teddy Gingham was. After all, hadn't he been on the wireless almost daily when she was growing up? She remembered listening to first Charlie, then Fred and George, and finally Ron, groan at the bad news that Teddy Gingham always seemed to bring. "That can't be anything good, then."

Harry's look was perverse, but not directed at her. "Trust me, it's not." He gave a sigh that seemed to collect years as it hit the air. "The gist of it is that I just got demoted. Somehow, the sneaky little rat convinced Teddy Gingham to put a different Seeker in my spot and—you'll love this part—I'm being sent to start up a new team in Nottingham. Sponsored by Ulysses Davenport. Supposed Death Eater and everything. They're pairing _me_ with Ulysses Davenport."

Being in the Tunnel meant that she was acquainted with a lot of the big names of those who had scraped out of Azkaban by the skin of their teeth. However, Ginny didn't really remember hearing the name Ulysses Davenport in any of the briefings she had attended. "I don't think he's the major part of your problems," she said, tilting her head to the side. "And if he's the sponsor, you won't come into contact with him much. What you really have to worry about is the manager." She knew a lot more about professional Quidditch, and Quodpot, because she had arranged parties for several events before. The hierarchy of a professional Quidditch team was not beyond her.

"Dave Davenport, Ulysses's son." Harry shrugged. "They're probably using me as a cover-up." He looked remarkably unhappy about this. "I'll talk to Ron and see what he has to say about it, but I have a feeling I'm stuck with this. They really need my income in the Tu—back home." He flushed at his near give-away and shook his head. "I can't believe I just did that. Anyway, we'll see how that unfolds. Your turn."

Before Ginny could begin, however, Jack had returned with a couple of bottled butterbeers and two red plastic baskets containing burgers and fries. "Here ya go, then, Mr. Potter," he said snidely, setting the two baskets down in front of Ginny. "Suppose I'll just add this to y'r tab, then?"

Harry collected one of the baskets from across the table, nodding his thanks. "Isn't that what you always do?"

"Only cos I'm told to. If it were up t'me, I'd just charge ya double." Jack shrugged in a classic "what can you do?" move and Disapparated without any further ado.

Instead of blinking after Jack, Ginny just shook her head. "Interesting man, that," she said, reaching for the catsup. "Is he always so…abrupt?"

Occupied with arranging his food and double-checking for any suspicious bits, Harry just shrugged. "He's Jack. Erratic as they come, but if you'll hear Tony tell it, the most loyal man a git this side of the Channel could find. Tony's originally from Germany, you know."

"Is he really?" Ginny absorbed this with her usual half-interested air. "I didn't catch any trace of an accent or anything."

"You wouldn't." Harry's grin, Ginny decided then, was positively dangerous. "Bad for business, he says. He charmed it right out. 'Course, the charm kind of backfired on him for awhile, and he had a bit of an yank twang. We teased him something fierce, but he got it all right in the end." Seeming to remember exactly whom he was talking to, Harry flushed and shut his mouth very quickly. "Not that I'm, er, picking on yanks or anything…"

"Harry, just because I spent a lot of time in Alabama doesn't mean that you can't pick on Americans in front of me." Ginny shook her head. "You should hear my friend Tara go on about it, if anything. But never mind about that—what's the team called?"

"Team?" Harry asked, confused.

"The Quidditch team that you're going to be playing for—if they're influential enough to get England's Seeker to play for them, then they've certainly already got a name. That, and there are only thirteen teams allowed in the League." Harry was looking at her in such shock that Ginny sighed to herself. "Hello, Harry, remember me? I played Quidditch with you at Hogwarts. I even took your spot for a year!"

Harry jumped and seemed to withdraw back into himself for the shortest of instants, forcing Ginny to blink in response. "Oh," was all he said. "Now I feel like an idiot. I'm sorry. I forgot about…you know, you and Quidditch. I haven't been around anybody but Hermione and Angelina for so long—with Angie, it's entirely natural, but after explaining the Bludger to Hermione—just last week…" He frowned. "I'm just making a mess of things today."

"Yes, you are," Ginny observed. "But let's not dwell on that. Which team are they dismantling? The Tornadoes? Ever since they hit that string of luck before my fourth year, they've been going steadily downhill."

Harry shook his head. "They're bringing two teams. One's an Irish team—the Dublin Demented, and my team. A whole bunch of stink was raised about the dwindling number of games they've been having, so the Ministry's decided to throw in some fresh blood, as the term goes."

"So the Quidditch Thirteen is being changed to the Quidditch Fifteen?" Ginny asked, slightly alarmed. "But it's been Quidditch Thirteen for centuries!"

"Since 1674," Harry mumbled. When Ginny looked at him peculiarly, he said, "I _did _read _Quidditch Through the Ages_, you know." He didn't mention that when he wasn't practising for a game or working on a Tunnel assignment, he was usually reading something of the Quidditch variety. "With the community expanding as it is, they've developed enough new charms to add two more teams. My team meets the day after tomorrow—we play Dublin Demented in three weeks. Not much time to train, but it's just a promotional scrimmage."

Ginny could see the tightness around his jaw that clearly screamed that he did not like this idea at all, but was going to put up with it. That was just the way Harry was. Years of being a Tunnel agent taught one when it was appropriate to fight back, even if he had dealt with anger issues during his days at Hogwarts. Going against the King of Quidditch was just not something that Harry could do and maintain his safe position as a backer for the Tunnel at the same time. "Is Ulysses Davenport in charge of all promotions?" she asked, trying to divert the topic even the slightest bit. "You know, the ex-Death Eater?"

Harry's frown turned thoughtful. "You know, I'm really not sure. My agent's been in meetings all day, but the instant he gets solid news, he's supposed to owl me. Why? Are you interested?"

Ginny took a bite of her hamburger. "It might be a good way to keep tabs on him," she said slowly, chewing contemplatively. "I can go undercover if it's necessary."

Discreetly, Harry checked over his shoulder, but the other customers were clearly not interested in whatever he had to say. One was holding the other by the chin and pouring Rancid Butterbeer down his gullet, laughing as the victim sputtered. Harry gave them a dirty look, which went unnoticed. When he turned back, he lowered his voice considerably, "What about the person you're supposed to be tracking? Won't this take away from that?"

Ginny froze. Apparently, Ron had already informed him of at least the basic facts of her assignment. When she found her voice, she cleared her throat uncomfortably. "About that," she said, wishing that her voice wouldn't waver. "I'm not openly tracking him or anything. I'm actually supposed to act as bait."

Harry's eyebrows shot up so that they nearly joined his hairline. "Isn't that dangerous?" he hissed. "Risking yourself like that—"

Ginny gritted her teeth. "Bill already gave me this lecture. But he agrees that it's the best way to do—"

"Hello, Ginny."

It took every ounce of willpower Ginny had ever owned to do no more than jump in surprise at the voice that cut smoothly into her sentence.

*

"Hello, Ginny."

Harry, for one, was surprised. Because he'd been looking at Ginny when they were interrupted, he could see that she tensed at the new voice, and not in the way one tenses out of surprise. Immediately, his defences came up, and he slid his hand into his pocket, fingers tightening around his wand. Trying to appear nonchalant, he turned and looked calmly at the next table.

A young man, perhaps a year or two older than Harry, sat there with his legs crossed and a mug of tea in one hand, as though interrupting a conversation like the one Ginny and Harry were having was a common occurrence. Harry instinctively sized the other man up. He had a few pounds on Harry, and a longer reach, but Harry could probably take him in a fist fight. Although he looked terribly thin, Harry was wiry and quite agile. Like Harry, the other man wore glasses, too, but his were gold-framed and quite fashionable. Wavy brown hair and a pointed face with a bit of a snub nose completed the effect.

"May I help you?" Harry asked impatiently.

Across the table, Ginny seemed to relax. Her tone, Harry heard, was still forced, though. "Dermot! I didn't realise that you would be here today!"

The man looked at her. "It was a last minute thing, darling," he said in a thick Irish brogue. "I actually saw you through the window and thought that I might drop in."

"How convenient," Harry muttered under his breath, quite agitated. Whoever this 'Dermot' was, Ginny had certainly had an interesting reaction. He found himself wondering if this character was possibly an ex-boyfriend of Ginny's. Suddenly, he disliked Dermot a lot more. "Well, you've dropped in, now can you do us a favour and drop out?"

"_Harry_!"

Despite Ginny's admonition, however, Harry did not regret his words. There was something off-putting about Dermot; perhaps his smile was a bit too false, or his chin sat at too jaunty an angle, but Harry could just not place it. For an irrational moment, he felt a surge of general frustration. Maybe he had crossed paths with Dermot before, and just had forgotten how unpleasant the man looked.

"Oh, so _you're _Harry Potter," Dermot said with a smile of delight that looked more feral than anything. "I'm just honoured to meet you. Tell me, are the rumours true?"

Harry bristled at the tone. "Which ones?" he asked, pointedly ignoring the pleading looks Ginny was sending his way.

Dermot rose gracefully from the table, smirking for good measure. At that smirk, Harry was reminded strongly of Draco Malfoy, something that rubbed harshly against the back of his neck. Warning flags went up all over the place. "Take your pick," Dermot said, showing all thirty-two teeth in his false grin. He dropped a fedora on his wavy hair, but not before saluting Ginny with it. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Potter. Ginny—" And here his pause spoke of dangerous intentions that left Harry bristling. "I'll be seeing you."

*

"Mr. Weasley—the Bulgarian branch representatives have just arrived."

Bill Weasley looked up from the scroll he was poring over with a jeweller's eyeglass, his irritation growing rapidly at the thought of dealing with the fussy Bulgarians and their policies. He was a Curse Breaker, not a bloody negotiator. Before he could say anything, his secretary added, "And a Mr. Potter is here to see you. He says it's most imperative that he speak with you."

For a minute, Bill struggled to remember the name of the petite woman standing in his doorway. He brought himself some time by standing and clearing his throat. "Send Mr. Potter in straightaways, Grace," he instructed. "Donaldson can deal with the Bulgarians today. I'm afraid I have no patience for them." One of the only benefits of having a desk job in Gringotts was the fact that he now had underlings—underlings that he could boss around and pawn off his assignments to. It was a great feeling.

Grace slipped discretely from the room and a minute later, Harry entered, eyebrows uplifted at the sight of Bill's office. The Quidditch player had visited Bill before, but it had been several months before, when Bill had been in a different department all together. "Nice digs, Weasley," Harry teased, looking around at all of the posters on the wall as Bill crossed the room to shake his hand. There were several Egyptian papyrus drawings, intermingled with pictures of family and of Bill's young wife. Harry was only three years younger than Fleur, but sometimes the age difference seemed to be centuries. "You're important enough to have your own office. How's it feel to be legit?"

"Boredom doesn't even come close." Bill rubbed a hand through his short locks, still acclimating himself to the new hairdo. "But I get to boss people around now, and they're paid to listen to me. It could be worse."

Harry pushed his hands into the pockets of the Muggle jacket he wore. He had obviously been visiting the Muggle world again—the Quidditch hero spent so much time there that Bill sometimes blinked at the sight of him in robes. "Fancy a mystery to occupy some of that valuable company time?"

Bill's eyes narrowed as he took a seat and watched Harry walk around, inspecting all of the different pictures. "How dangerous a mystery?" He had priorities to worry about, even though he was an esteemed agent within the Tunnel hierarchy. The others understood; a large portion of his duties had been passed to some of the new recruits. He had a little girl on the way and she came before anything in the Tunnel.

"Nothing too dangerous, actually." Harry smiled lopsidedly and crossed to the chair opposite Bill. The two regarded each other over the desktop. "Just some fact-gathering. You're probably already on the case."

Bill picked up a quill to sign and date a document while he listened. "You've talked to Ginny." It wasn't a question.

Harry didn't bother to deny it, even though they both knew the risks involved in the two meeting publicly. Ginny had even avoided the Burrow altogether, choosing to stay with a Muggleborn friend that provided some coverage. "Took her to Tony's, yes."

That explained the Muggle jacket, at least. Bill was torn between wondering what he was thinking and glad that he was taking such caution. If you wanted to scare a girl off, you took her to Tony's. If you wanted to protect a girl, you took her to Tony's. There wasn't any middle ground to be had. "The details of her case are classified—only Ron and I have clearance, as well as Ginny's partner." It had taken much arguing, but Bill had finally received permission to view the related files. Even having his youngest brother as the Tunnel Director hadn't given him any pull. In fact, it had probably been incentive for the added stubbornness on Ron's part. Owling the American Tunnel Director had been a low bow, but it had convinced Ron to let his oldest brother take a look.

"I'm not looking for clearance. But I do admit that I need to know a few things." Harry crossed his arms, relaxing. "For instance—who's Dermot?" It was said with such a casual air that Bill, in the middle of taking a drink from his water bottle, barely thought to spit out all of the water at the name. Harry watched the reaction, his eyes growing colder. "I thought there was something off about him. Explain." Like Bill's statement, it wasn't a question.

"That requires clearance," Bill said quietly, taking his time in setting the water bottle down.

"He would be the man she's playing bait for, then." Harry stretched and leaned back in the chair. To most, he would look perfectly at ease. Bill, however, knew that the whole subject made him tense up and had to wonder about the change. Was he acting brotherly? Or was it something more? Bill made a note to watch the pair more closely in the upcoming weeks. "Forget the clearance for a minute."

Bill wasn't sure he could do that.

"In fact, forget Ginny _and_ the clearance," Harry continued, not looking at his friend. "Today I met an Irish man in Tony's. He must be a wizard to even enter Tony's, I tell myself. He looks about my age, so I guess he would have gone to school at the same time as me. For the life of me, I can't place his face. That's okay, though. It's not uncommon for people to cross the Channel and go to one of the schools over there. Maybe he went to Durmstrang? Beauxbatons? Either way, I don't know him and didn't know him during school. Yet my date, who I've known for more than half my life, does." He paused in this part of his commentary to steeple his hands, and Bill began dreading where this was going. "We were at school together for a full six years. So that makes me think either she met him her seventh year, which is unlikely because the only students I didn't know by then were the first years, or she met him in her travels abroad. But why would that make her tense up, I have to wonder. He seems like a nice fellow to the public eye. She's admitted to me that she's a spy. Spies don't react, period. It's just their nature. Something this guy did was enough to make her openly uncomfortable. I want to know what he did, why he did it, _how _he did it, and most importantly, where I can find him to beat him to a bloody pulp. Are we agreed?"

Bill took another long gulp of water. "I think the only thing you left out of that narrative is what you ate for breakfast."

"Bacon and eggs. Your brother was kind enough to drop by and cook. If you ask me, he was probably trying to make something up to his wife. What that is, I have no idea. Stop evading the question."

"I can't tell you. You don't have clearance."

For the first time since the conversation began, Harry looked pained. "Look, either you can tell me now and we can stay on good footing in each others' high esteems, or I can go put your youngest brother in a headlock and beat it out of him." He shrugged and looked aimlessly at the pictures cluttering the wall. "Either way works, but this way is a lot less painful for your brother and myself. The choice is up to you."

There really wasn't a way out, Bill discovered as he turned the options over in his mind. It was obvious that Harry _was_ going to get the information, even if he had to break a few dozen rules to get it. If he was forced to beat it out of Ron, both would be grumpy and hard to deal with for weeks… "If I tell you what happened, you have to swear that you gave me Veritaserum. I have no desire to be on the receiving end of one of Ron's right hooks," Bill said in his sternest impression of Professor McGonagall.

Harry was quick to smile at that. "Deal."

*

Taking a deep breath, Harry walked into the conference room and looked about. There were nine people assembled, so it was obvious that he was the last to arrive. He couldn't have planned it better if he tried, he decided, sitting down in the only chair open. Ten people, grouped around a polished mahogany table. Along the walls of the room were several posters, most of them for minor Quidditch teams about the country. Harry smiled as he recognised a few of the players, but his smile disappeared as he saw the poster at the head of the room.

The Nottingham Typhoon. The newest Quidditch team to come into play, against the Dublin Demented. Already, they were sworn enemies. Harry knew what would happen: this meeting would take place, he would meet his new teammates and probably enjoy a quick cup of coffee with them, and then a whirlwind of activities would take place. There would be photographs taken for all of the newspapers and magazines covering the exciting story. For the next two weeks, they would practice at an undisclosed location, and in the final week, their practices would be open to public viewing. Throughout that time, propaganda would be released pitting the navy blue Nottingham Typhoon against the green-and-yellow Dublin Demented. If they were smart, they would aim the campaign at young blood.

"Are we all here?" the primly-dressed old man at the head of the table asked as Harry seated himself. He had sharp, aristocratic features that made Harry figure him to be the owner, Ulysses Davenport. The younger likeness of him to his left had to be Dave Davenport, the team manager and Ulysses' son. Harry didn't recognise the man on his right, but he figured the other six to be his new teammates. They were all wearing formal robes like he was, most bearing a patch on the shoulder from their old teams. Given the circumstances, nobody looked entirely thrilled to be there, but Harry could tell they were all struggling to look polite. "Good, let's begin."

They started with introductions, and Harry silently memorised the names of his new teammates. Tad Gideon and Frank Greeley were both well-muscled and trim, the perfect moulds for Beaters. Tad wore a friendly smile, Frank an ebullient grin despite the fact that they had been pulled from other places. Harry decided that he would probably like them. He wasn't too sure about the Keeper, a quiet, lanky sort of fellow named Barry Winslow. His old teammates called him the Bear, he told the group. The Chasers were all attractive women in their mid-twenties, not too much older than Harry. Stacy and Tracy Harrows were twins with blue eyes, and brown freckles, and Melinda Warren was introduced as a close friend. They'd all played for the Holyhead Harpies at one point or another, never at the same time. 

The man on Ulysses' right, a timid-looking sort who introduced himself as Simon Bates, the agent for both Davenports, began the meeting with the normal discussion of what the Nottingham Typhoon stood for, a few specifics about where the team was headed, how much popularity they hoped to generate, proper conduct, and other things that Harry had heard at every other team meeting he had been to in his lifetime. He listened with half an ear, his attention focused on the sheaf of signed contracts he had brought with him. They were signed in four places—by Teddy Gingham, his agent, Ulysses Davenport, and himself—and those four signatures had all but decided his fate. He wanted to burn the contracts or at least rip them to shreds. He didn't want to be part of this new team at all, but now he didn't have a choice.

The promotional charade began directly after the meeting, when the new teammates were escorted into a set of locker rooms that were done in navy blue, grey, and dark red. The new robes were hanging in each of the lockers, and there was a partition down the middle of the locker room, the men on one side, the women on the other. Harry saw the women stiffen at this, but they relax when Bates mentioned the charms that would keep anybody of the opposite sex from seeing anything while in the locker room. While Bates explained the different charms, Harry walked up to the locker labelled H. Potter and opened the door. The uniforms were pretty sleek, he decided in his first appraisal. At least they weren't orange.

Bates left them alone to change, requesting that they meet outside in ten minutes. Harry watched both Ulysses and Dave follow the agent from the room. "What d'you think, Harry?" asked Bear Winslow, who was nearest him. The tall Keeper was obviously interested in making friends, something that mollified Harry somewhat. In truth, he resembled Dean Thomas a little. Of course, Harry hadn't seen Dean Thomas since they had left Hogwarts, but Bear was a pretty good likeness. "Fancy digs? Or just another ruse?"

"Another ruse?"

"Ulysses Davenport's had his fingers in every suspicious pie for over two decades. He finally decides to buy a Quidditch team and hide behind the Boy-Who-Lived. Doesn't that seem a bit…suspicious…to you?" asked Tad Gideon, one of the Beaters who had a locker on the other side of Bear's. The man almost dwarfed Harry in size, and Harry was by no means short. A shock of blond hair and a thick accent suggested Germanic roots.

"Maybe," Harry said thoughtfully just as a thought occurred to him. "Hey, who've the Irish got, then?"

"Pierce McAnerney and an old schoolmate of yours, rumour has it. Seamus Finnegan."

That piece of news itself was intriguing, but Harry did his best to shove it away for later. Right now, he had appearances to maintain and inquiries to make. Still, he couldn't help commenting. He hadn't even known Seamus played Quidditch. "I bet this Dublin Demented versus Nottingham Typhoon extravaganza is really making him happy." At Bear's questioning look, he said, "The guy and I have a history. He has plenty of reason to dislike me."

It was Frank Greeley, the big black Beater similar to Tad in build and opposite him in everything else, that asked, "Oh? Why?"

"I insulted his mum."

They convened in the hallway, all dressed sharply in the new Quidditch robes. After playing for the national team, Harry was used to playing in lightweight fabrics and flashy logos, but the Davenports were really pulling out all of the stops for the players. The uniforms were the highest quality he had ever worn, and they had caterers waiting in the meeting room. The new teammates were handed schedules, and Harry immediately felt his chest constrict. They had a press conference that very evening. He hated press conferences, hated stuttering and trying to think of something eloquent to say.

There was a Team Co-ordinator listed on the schedule, he saw. He didn't recognise the name Amy Mason. For a moment, his stomach plummeted—the Tunnel was counting on getting Ginny secured in that job. Why hadn't they been able to?

A very feminine throat cleared and Harry looked over, nearly dropping the schedule as he did. Ginny was standing by the food table, chatting genially with Tracy Harrow (the twins were easy to tell apart—one had dyed her hair black, the other blonde; Tracy was the blonde). She looked quite different in the formal robes, but still stunning in a way that made every one of the other women in the room fade slightly. Her hair was still red, just darker and almost classier. There was not a freckle on her face, and her skin was charmed to a warm tan. Harry decided privately that he liked her with the bright hair and freckles a lot more.

"Hello, _Amy_," he said, wandering over with a glass of water for her. He nodded at Tracy, who excused herself. "I'm glad you could make it. Nice tan."

"Isn't it, though?" The old Ginny still sparkled in her eyes as she grinned at him. "For a few minutes, I wasn't sure if they were going to buy it. A tanned redhead?" She shrugged and took the water. "Thanks."

"So what's on the agenda, then?" he asked even though he had already read the sheet.

"Well, I know how much you love public speaking, so you're first for the press conferences." Harry groaned; it looked like Ginny would do everything she could to pick on him now. One should never be on bad terms with one's social planner. 

*

The doorbell rang just as Ginny sent the owl off to Madam Malkin's, requesting an appointment for dress robe fittings in two weeks' time. "Tara! Could you get that?" She needed to write down the order for the invitations before six so that she could get them in by Tuesday. Arranging a wedding in six months was no easy task, but it was a lot less stressful than her other job. She found rhythm in organising, which was why she had originally gone into the field. However, fate had had other ideas in mind for her, and now she was organising _very_ different activities, activities that made the social events she arranged look falsely cheerful and unimportant.

"No!" came the answering shout from across the flat. "I just got out of the shower!"

Ginny rolled her eyes in the general direction of her flatmate and called, "Just a minute!" towards the door. Setting her quill down, she hurried to the door and peered through the magical peephole, designed to read off the intentions of those who knocked on their door. The answering aura was a calm blue—good intentions—so she threw open the door and nearly gasped in surprise. "Harry! What are you doing here?"

He looked good, she admitted silently. Faded blue jeans, a green shirt with the arms rolled up to his elbows, his hair in its normal state of complete disarray. "Friday, right?" he asked, grinning. Ginny's mouth fell open at this; she had completely forgotten about the date! "It's okay. I planned ahead and decided to bring dinner instead of waiting." He held up a brown paper sack as evidence and Ginny ushered him inside, apologising and blushing fiercely. He laughed and waved them off.

"My flatmate's here," Ginny said almost apologetically as she led him to the table that functioned as both a desk and an eating space. Normally, she and Tara grabbed takeout and ate it over various work assignments, so the place wasn't exactly neat. Ginny's blush deepened as she cleared away takeout cartons and notebooks, creating a space.

"That's fine," Harry assured, helping her move the clutter to a kitchen counter. "I figured she might be, so I brought extra." When the table was relatively clean, he unloaded several magicked containers. "I wasn't sure what you liked, so I decided I couldn't go wrong with chicken. I hope you're not a vegetarian."

"I ate that burger at lunch the other day, didn't I?" Ginny arched an eyebrow and was secretly pleased to see him look embarrassed. It was an endearing look on him, to say the least.

Tara Riley, Ginny's flatmate, wandered in just then, her blonde hair wet and scraggly. She had dressed casually in jeans and a green shirt of Ginny's (the two were notorious for stealing each others' clothing), attire that suggested she didn't have any plans for the evening. She pulled up short at the sight of Harry, eyes going wide. Her look at Ginny had double-meaning.

"You must be Tara," Harry said, extending his hand politely. "I'm Harry. It's nice to meet you."

Still recovering, Tara said, "Likewise." She hadn't believed that Ginny had actually been to lunch with _the _Harry Potter, and now he was standing in their dining room. Her awe turned into glee when she spotted the containers he was unloading. "You brought us dinner?"

Harry laughed a bit. "I hope you don't mind sharing with me."

Unfazed now, Tara grinned over at Ginny. "I'm sure we could spare him a roll or something."

"Or something," Ginny agreed, rolling her eyes at her flatmate. In looks, she and Tara were as different as could be. Ginny had unfortunately inherited her mother's height and the Weasley lanky build. She thought her nose a tad too long and her hair a bit too bright, and her freckles were quite annoying. Tara was tall, willowy, and blonde like a supermodel, her movements graceful. She had laughing blue-green eyes and a smile that had dazzled gentlemen for ages. Her skin bronzed at the merest hint of sun, something of which that Ginny would be jealous forever. The southern drawl in her American accent just made men stop and turn their heads to stare after her; for all of her intelligence, she never really noticed.

"Actually," Tara said, looking at Ginny and misinterpreting the eye-roll, "I forgot that I have a dinner appointment tonight."

Harry raised an eyebrow at the obvious lie. "Shame," was all he said. He, too, looked at Ginny, but his expression held the quiet amusement that Tara's lacked. "I'm sure we'll recover, though."

"Good to hear it!" Tara disappeared into the bedroom and emerged less than a minute later in different clothing, her hair dry. She whirled about the flat, collecting her purse and shoes, a blur of motion. Both Ginny and Harry stared as she rushed by them on the way to the door, calling out, "Don't wait up, kids!" after her.

"Subtlety isn't her strong suit, is it?" Harry asked as the door clicked shut behind her.

"I'm afraid we scared my flatmate out of her own apartment," Ginny observed mournfully as an answer to his question. His grin told her that he didn't quite mind being alone with her. She refused to let herself be flustered at that and instead looked down at the food. "We have two options—we can eat here at the table, or there's more comfortable seating, as well as a television set and Tara's collection of movies in the other room."

"She's Muggle-born?" Harry asked with some surprise.

"Nah, the witches and wizards in America just live like Muggles, that's all. She's American, in case you didn't notice."

They opted to eat in the other room and talk through an old movie, so Ginny found _Charade_, one of Tara's more absurd movies, and pushed it into the DVD player (she was grateful that Tara had finally drummed how to work the machine into her head). "So what did you do today?" Ginny asked as the opening credits began in a rainbow of colours and swirling confusion.

Harry picked at a piece of chicken and considered it for a long moment before popping it into his mouth. "We had our first practice today."

He obviously wasn't interested in elaborating, so Ginny watched him out of the corner of her eye for a minute before saying, "That bad?"

"I really don't know what to think. We all click. Everybody's congenial and we all get along really well. I don't think the Davenports had this in mind when they selected us." At her questioning glance, he shrugged. "Bear and I were joking about something on a break today and we got a frown. We're either not focused enough, or he just doesn't like the fact that we're getting along so well. Bear gets along with everybody, though."

Before Ginny had time to react to that statement, there was a loud coughing noise from the fireplace and none other than Ron's head appeared. He lifted his eyebrows to see both of them there, but chose not to comment. "Ginny, report in. We're going in, full gear, no holds barred." With that, the ginger head disappeared from the flames.

Used to being called in such a cryptic fashion, both threw the chicken back into the bucket and sprang from the couch. "Where do you think you're going?" Ginny demanded, swinging about to stop him from grabbing the bucket of Floo powder. "He called me in, not you. Harry, you're not a Field Agent."

Harry reached around her, undeterred by the evil eye she was giving him. "He didn't say stay put, so I'm going."

"Maybe he didn't see you."

"Was I the only one that saw the _look_?" Harry stuffed some Floo powder into the flames, shoved her in shocked and all, and shouted, "Fish and Chips!" Still looking at him furiously, she whirled up the chimney and he waited two seconds before throwing another handful in and following her.

The unexpected trip hadn't cooled her temper when they landed in the Tunnel Headquarters, but Harry was saved an earful by Ron, who was waiting there for both of them. As the British Director for the Tunnel, Ron practically lived in the headquarters (he and Hermione had an apartment on the third floor of the building). It was a redone basement to an apartment building, blocked off to Muggles and unwanted eavesdroppers by a hearty network of spells. Hermione had set it up, using several of her Muggle-born tricks to compose a wall-to-wall viewing space, using both monitors and magic. A fractured code listing the statistics of the Tunnel members within their specific quadrant ran continually on a monitor in the corner. Ron's desk, as well as the desks of the four other people that worked at the Headquarters, were stuffed into one corner. There was a planning table or The Glass Table, a work of pure genius (another one of Hermione's ideas) in yet another corner, the smooth glass top untouched for now. As the pair tumbled in, Harry accidentally landing on top of Ginny and pulling both of them to their feet, Ron was pointing his wand at the table, carefully moving it to the centre of the room.

"All right, you two," he said, nodding a greeting at them. "We've got an interesting mission on our hands tonight."

Ginny's dirty look parried Harry's triumphant one. Ron raised an eyebrow but chose not to comment. "It's a hit-and-run job," he said, tapping the table with his wand once. Immediately, the glass atop the surface began to shift and change, expanding in volume. Before long the three in the room were staring at an exact replica of the Shrieking Shack. "Remember this building?"

"Spooky haunted place in the middle of Hogsmeade?" Ginny asked.

"It wasn't haunted," both Ron and Harry said on the same breath. She lifted an eyebrow at them, and Harry looked to Ron to continue. "It was where Remus transformed during his Hogwarts days," Ron explained simply. "Now we believe it to be a hot spot for some old Death Eater buddies of ours that just can't seem to get the fact that Voldemort's dead." He said the name with ease, and patted the tabletop again. The scene changed into one of the rooms inside the Leaky Cauldron. "We believed that they were hiding a stash of Galleons _here_ in Room Three in the Leaky Cauldron, but Scotty just sent us some interesting information. Seems some suspicious types have been hanging around the Shrieking Shack. He had a look around and thinks the stash might be hidden on the second floor. I want you two to go fetch it."

"Layout?" Ginny asked, already assessing the situation.

The glass shifted to show a map. Both Harry and Ginny scanned it, memorising even the smallest details that might save them. "What's the cover like?"

Ron indicated two points on the map. "The Forbidden forest starts here," he said, drawing a perimeter around the backyard of the Shrieking Shack with his wand. The line glowed blue. "Scotty thinks there's an Anti-Apparation zone set up _here._ Maybe werewolves can still access some of their powers in wolf form, so Professor Dumbledore obviously took precautions." Now his wand traced a red line about the entire space. "Unfortunately, it's open terrain. Thirty feet of uncovered territory."

Both agents had the sense to wince. A lot could happen in ten feet, much less thirty.

"I'm taking point," Ginny said forcefully, glaring at Harry. Through the briefing, they had been slipping on the special vests, leg-guards, boots, and arm guards that would give them as much invisibility as the area allowed.

Ron looked apologetic at that. "Learn to love her shadow," he told his best friend. "She can slip away pretty easily, too. Kind of like a cat. Or at least a very annoying squirrel."

Ginny stuck her tongue out at him for that as she readjusted a strap on her wrist. "You're just slow."

"You stick with Harry. If anything seems remotely odd to you, bail. The Galleons aren't worth losing two of my best agents." Ron suddenly looked weary. "And I really don't want to explain to Ulysses Davenport why his Organiser and his star Seeker died together in an old shack in Hogsmeade, okay?"

"We'll go down in a fit of flames if anything. It'll make tabloids all over the world," Ginny promised. "Hold on, I forgot my helmet. I'll go fetch that from my locker." 

She wandered away, leaving the two men studying the map on the planning table. Ron sighed, "Just for the record, I don't know how you got the information out of Bill, but I promise you'll never be able to 'beat it out of me.'" Harry pulled a face, amazed that Ron was so astute as to use his exact words. "I'll have you know I happen to lie well under pressure."

Not to be beaten, Harry pointedly looked behind him and say, "Oh, hi, Hermione, when'd you get here?"

Ron didn't turn to look. "Not very funny, Potter. You're not fooling me."

"What's not funny?" asked Hermione, who had just come down the stairs from their apartment. Ron's face went from pale to white to red very quickly, forcing Harry to stuff his fist into his mouth to stifle the laughter. She narrowed her eyes at the pair of them, decided she probably didn't want to know anyway, and asked, "Where's Ginny? I thought you said she was on the mission tonight."

"She is. She's just getting her helmet from her locker."

"Well, that's odd. The locker room was empty when I walked by."

Ron's face drained for the second time in under a minute and he looked over at Harry, eyes wide. The Seeker didn't even bother to return the look. He crammed his helmet over his messy hair and Disapparated, landing easily outside of the Shrieking Shack. His opponent wasn't even given time to react. Before his feet had even fully touched the ground, he flew into a tackle, and the pair of them went down with an, "Oof!"

In normal circumstances, Ginny might have Apparated to get away from him, but luck had it that they landed just within the Anti-Apparation border. The cover of bushes hid them from anybody who might be watching. Because he had landed on top of her and now had her pinned, Ginny could feel him shaking, but his face looked relatively calm. The Occlumency mask, she realised in that split-second where they just stared at each other. He broke that second before it passed. "What the bloody blazes do you think you're doing?" The fury made his voice break.

Ginny tried to shove him off of her, but he had her pinned too effectively. Furious in return, she glared. "I work _alone_. If you weren't there, Ron would have sent me on this mission alone!"

His grip on her arms tightened, harsh but not enough to leave marks. He didn't want to hurt her, even if he was furious with her. "Tough! Whether you like it or not, I'm your partner on this excursion, so you'll just have to deal with it!"

Seconds away from telling him what had happened to her last partner, or rather what he had done to her, Ginny stopped. Now wasn't the time to debate such things. Now was the time for action. She nodded tersely to show that she understood and he eased off of her. "I'm still taking point."

Harry was unshakeable. He scanned the area, looking for any signs of movement, and nodded to her. "As long as you understand I'll be right behind you. Clear."

That was her signal, and she took off across the grounds to the back door of the Shack. Her heart pounded against her uvula, but she made it there and crouched out of the line-of-fire, wand out and scanning for any Hexes, Alarm Charms, or "Bogies." A quick check and she jerked her arm into the air twice. Before long, Harry was at her side, checking the door for an unfriendly magic. He nodded at her to get into position and she did, putting her shoulder against the door. "_Perpellus_!" The door was shoved inward by Harry's spell and she slipped into the inky blackness within. A few seconds later: "Clear!"

"_Confutus_!" Harry whispered towards the floorboards so that they wouldn't creak. He moved so stealthily behind Ginny that she lost sight of him a few times. He would always slip in at the edge of her vision, nearly startling her into hexing him. They picked their way silently up the rickety staircase, hoping that it wouldn't collapse on them, their movements kicking up dust. The clean streak that Ron had left when Padfoot had dragged him to the bedroom was long covered up by years of dust.

"That bedroom," Ginny mouthed, pointing her wand at the door. They posted themselves along either side of the wall, Harry's wand tracing the detecting charms throughout the hall. So far they had been lucky enough to avoid any untoward magic. Almost too lucky, each was thinking as Ginny readied herself to slip in.

The stash of Galleons would be under the bed in the third bedroom. Ginny moved inside quietly, eyes scanning any shadows and corners for signs of movement. Deeming it safe, she crossed to the bed and dropped to her knees. Her detector charm showed no buried hexes hidden under the bed, so she muttered, "_Accio _Galleons!" They nearly hurt her hand with the force of the spell.

Her sixth instinctive sense barely had time to kick in before both agents heard the almighty _CRRRRRAAAACCCCCKKKKK_ that could only mean one thing. Ginny's eyes flew wide; swearing, Harry rushed into the room just in time to see the portion of the floor that Ginny was standing on collapse and to watch her fall…

*

"Ginny!"

Sounds of scuffling met her ears. Somebody was calling her name and…shifting things? Why on earth would they do that? Her room was always clean. There was nothing to move. She tried to sit up and tell them that, but pain greater than anything she had ever felt lanced through her middle and slammed her into a dizzy world of colour. She groaned and tried to move, but that only made the colour intensify to painful levels. Taking every last drop of energy she had, she opened her eyes and nearly threw up at the sight that met her.

She had been impaled.

There was a thin piece of wood sticking in her side. _Through her_. 

"Ginny!" There it was again, the voice, calling her name. Worried and rough, probably from the dust. More than worried…scared? Ginny stared at the hands that were digging frantically at the rubble around her, not quite comprehending that they were hands. "Hold on. You're okay, all right? You're going to live."

__

Of course I'm going to live. I'm a Weasley. We bounce. Ginny didn't say that. Her tongue had forgotten how. Her brain didn't know any way to say it, so she tried to smile at her rescuer. It came out as a grimace, and a pained one at that. But maybe…maybe he knew it was a smile. 

"That's my girl. No, no, don't try to speak." The hands wrapped around her—whoever her rescuer was, he had large hands. She liked that, had always liked large hands—and yanked upwards so roughly that Ginny gasped once from the pain and tumbled back into the land of the black. 

"_Harry_…"


	3. A Gaze of Emeralds

__

A/N: Wow, absolutely NO reviews for the last chapter. Probably tells me something, but I'm not sure what. Oh, well. I'll just keep plugging on. I_ find the story interesting, at least. And I hope the non-reviewers do, too. Shout-outs go to Leslie and Guerry…because they're cool. Hi, guys!_

Disclaimer: I don't own the Davenports, Bear, the Chaser twins, or Tad and Frank, but I'd appreciate if you didn't steal them. Melinda Warren is a direct tribute to Charmed_, and everything you recognize belongs to the wonderful JKR who is a nice lady to let all of us fanfic authors play in her realm._

****

Chapter Three: A Gaze of Emeralds

Harry stood outside the emergency ward at St. Mungo's, nursing his jaw and fighting the desire to pace. He'd lost his gear somewhere; was too tired to care where it had gone. Maybe Ron or Fred had taken it. He didn't particularly care.

The onslaught of Weasleys into the hospital hadn't been easy. It had started with Ron and Hermione, who had met them there. Ron had been the hardest—or at least his punch had. "Why didn't you protect her?!" he had roared on arrival. It had taken Bill, Fred, and Hermione to calm him down enough to do anything but yell, but Harry had received an earful before they were done. None of the other brothers were too happy that Harry had let her fall, but they understood that it couldn't be helped.

Now Ron was off finding ice for his sore hand (try a sore jaw, Harry thought very ungratefully in his friend's direction) and the rest of the Weasleys were in the waiting room, either pacing or pretending to read a magazine. Ginny had been in magical surgery for over two hours now, and they were all getting crankier by the second. Harry was debating going to find a drink just to avoid any explosions when he caught Hermione looking at him very pointedly. He sighed and sat down next to her. "What is it?"

Hermione sighed. Calming Ron had taken its toll and she looked as though she wanted nothing more than to sleep. However, worry for Ginny fuelled her, as it did the rest of them. "Ulysses Davenport is outside. He's demanding to know what happened."

Harry had been dreading that. "What did you tell him?"

"A freak accident--and that you're now roommates with Gin--I mean, Amy Mason. Your agent's trying to calm him down and give him the story I fed him. As far as I know, they're buying it. We can't have people prying into the Shrieking Shack, though. Some villagers were bound to hear the floor breaking."

"Just get a couple of agents in there telling ghost stories. Everybody'll think it's ghosts. And get the floor fixed tomorrow when nobody's expecting it." Harry rubbed his forehead and saw Hermione's eyes flick towards his scar. "Did we at least send somebody to get the Galleons? I'm going to be furious if she fell for no reason at all."

To their left, Charlie and George joined Bill and Fred in pacing. Percy's hands tightened around a day-old edition of _The Daily Prophet_. Hermione watched this with another hearty sigh. "Scotty picked them up over an hour ago. They're on their way to the Gringotts in Romania."

The sound of the doors swinging open made everybody in the room look up. There was a long pause as Ginny, tired, pale, and near the point of exhausted tears, stared back at them. She was leaning heavily on a cane, but she was alive, and walking. Almost everybody in the room rushed to her, surrounding her. Harry and Hermione merely watched the fray. They were part of the family, but in a way they were responsible for the accident. Hermione cast an apologetic look at Harry as she stood and joined the crowd, which was now trying to convince Ginny to sit down although she looked as though the only thing she wanted was to lie down and sleep for maybe a decade.

Harry alone stood back even after Ron had come back in and given Ginny a hug. Everybody was firing questions at Ginny so rapidly that she would be occupied for at least half an hour just assuring her family that she was fine. Expression stormy, Harry slipped out of the room, not even noticing that Ginny watched him go out of the corner of her eye.

*

"Mr. Weasley?" Seven redheaded men raised their heads from the huddle about the youngest Weasley to look at the hospital attendant that had ventured rather timidly into the room. Befuddled, the hospital attendant continued, "Mr. Ron Weasley?"

"That's me," Ron said, detaching himself from the group. He shrugged at their inquisitive glances and drew Bill aside. "Take her to the Hutch. She can stay in my room and avoid the press for a couple of days while she recovers." Bill nodded and headed back into the fray, while Ron politely followed the attendant to the private Floo. Harry's head sat in the flames, the expression impatient. As Ron settled himself into the chair that St. Mungo's provided, he frowned. He hadn't even noticed that Harry had left the waiting room. "What's up, mate?"

"So I'm 'mate' now?" Harry's hand sneaked into view as he rubbed his jaw. Ron felt the first twinge of guilt. "Look, get over here. I've just been going over table diagrams, and you're not going to like it."

When Harry wore that expression, Ron knew something a little more than serious was going on. He dropped two Knuts into the Floo dish, received a handful of Floo powder and said, "Make way, mate." Harry's head disappeared from the flames and Ron threw the Floo powder in, shouting, "Fish and Chips!" Harry was standing by the planning table when he tumbled from the proper hearth; the Boy-Who-Lived didn't even bother to look up as he crossed the room. "What's going on?"

"Just going over some floor plans, that's all," Harry said, still not looking at Ron. The Tunnel Director studied the projected image, recognising it to be the layout of the second floor of the Shrieking Shack. "Now, imagine if you will, that I am here, and Ginny is here, holding the Galleons." His wand tip left two green dots on the layout. Pink smears showed where the protecting hexes had been placed. "I've just programmed the table to show the stability of the areas I've indicated. The most stable is a dark green, and the least stable is red." He set his palm flat against the table, and the layout lit with a myriad of reds and greens. Ron's eyes scanned the area that the two brighter green dots still convened upon.

"What am I supposed to be looking for?" he asked after a minute.

"Right here." Harry pointed at the green dot in the hallway, himself. The floor underneath was glowing a very dangerous red. "Now, look here." He indicated the Ginny dot, which was standing on a green plane. "Look suspicious to you?"

"If you're saying that the floor had no reason to collapse, then yes it does." Ron frowned and placed both hands on the edge of the table. "Show all recent magical activities."

Streaks of light spread about around the board, causing the frowns of both men to deepen. "We managed to avoid this cluster here, but if you'll look here…" He rubbed a finger over the Ginny dot. "There was a hex cast right before she fell, it looks like. I didn't cast anything but a spell to push the door in and quiet the creaking floorboards. You can check my wand, if you want."

"No, I trust you." Ron shook his head. "So you're saying that somebody was in the house with you? Somebody knew you were even going to be there?" His frown looked permanently etched into his face at the moment. "The only ones who knew about this mission were Hermione, me, and…Scotty…"

Now Harry's face echoed the worry. "Dispatch an agent to Scotty's flat," he ordered, not bothering to care whether it was the Tunnel Director or not. "I don't think that was Scotty we were talking to at all. Polyjuice?"

"Polyjuice," Ron confirmed grimly. It took only a few fire-calls and soon he had two agents breaking into Scotty's house to check out the situation. Neither of the two men knew to hope; if somebody under Polyjuice could fool them that well…Scotty probably wasn't alive. How long somebody had been masquerading as the Scottish young man, nobody would know, but the last thing Ron wanted to do was show up on his parents' doorstep with a hat in his hand and the words, "Mr. and Mrs. Darrow? I'm afraid I have some bad news…"

They waited in silence on either end of the table for the news to report back for a good twenty minutes before Ron sighed heavily and said, "You should probably get back to the Hutch. I had Bill take Ginny there so that she could avoid the press."

If anything, that was a sign that he had been forgiven. Ginny could have spent the night at any number of places, given that nobody from the press really knew that she was a Weasley, but Ron had specifically chosen the Hutch. Maybe it was a challenge to protect her; Harry wasn't going to let them down this time. He nodded and thumped the side of his fist down on the planning table to clear it. On the way to the fire, he stopped and turned. "Who invented that table?"

"Hm?" Ron, already looking through a clipboard he kept in the basement, looked up and followed Harry's line of sight. "Oh, that was invented by Hermione and the twins. They're brilliant when they put their heads together."

"So we're the only division that has one of these, then?" he asked with some surprise.

Ron had thought that this was pretty common knowledge. "Yes. Although France has been trying to get their greasy paws on it for over two years by way of Fleur." Ron rolled his eyes at the quarter-Veela and Harry gave him a ghost of a smile. Bill's wife had mellowed after the birth of their first child "I can see the idea percolating in your head, so just call tomorrow morning or owl me. Right now your priority is Ginny."

"Right." Harry threw a fistful of Floo powder into the fire and shouted, "The Hutch!" to be taken up a swirl of colour. Ron watched him go and turned back to the paperwork, sighing. It was supposed to be a simple mission, but one of his agents had nearly been mortally wounded and another was even at this moment presumed deceased. It was a heavy load to carry if nothing else, and some days he just hated his job.

*

When Ginny woke, her first thought was of confusion, her second thought was of discomfort, and her third thought was, "Wait, where am I again?" This was not such an unfamiliar thought, as Ginny had woken in a lot of strange places over the years, mostly due to sleepwalking. Of course, some cases she had worked on required odd sleeping hours, and the main effect that had on her was to make her forget where she had gone to sleep.

She studied the room without moving anything but her eyes, not even letting herself stiffen to show that she was awake. It was one of those random things she had picked up in the field, even though it hadn't come in handy yet. Still, old habits died hard and she let herself scan the darkened corners of the room—a masculine affair done in rich mahogany tones and dark green. The paintings on the wall were of stills in famous Quidditch games, done in earthy colours to match the room. The dresser was cluttered with various odds and ends—she was clearly in somebody's room, and by the lack of warmth behind her, she was pretty sure she hadn't slept with anyone, or he had already left the bed. Fearful that that might be the case, Ginny slowly turned her head to where she could see the other half of the room and scanned the walls. A closet door, an open door leading to the rest of the house, a small bedside table filled with knickknacks…Harry in an armchair, looking dead to the world.

At this, Ginny sat up straight. This must be Harry's room, or at least his house. That was the scent of his cologne on the air. Why hadn't she noticed it before? What was going on? How had she ended up here? The last thing she could remember was opening the door for Harry—she paled. Had she actually slept with Harry? She would never live that down!

As though he somehow sensed that her thoughts were about him, he raised his head and looked over at her, shaking sleepiness off like a cloak. "'Morning," he greeted in a warm, cracking voice that would have made any woman happy to hear in the middle of the night. "I trust you slept well. They gave you enough to knock out an elephant and all you did was act drunk for a long time."

Ginny only looked at him blankly. He chuckled and pushed his hands into his forehead and through his hair, taking his time to stretch after that. She might have been annoyed if the pain hadn't chosen that exact time to assault her middle, making her wince.

A warm hand pressured her shoulder for a brief moment as Ginny sucked air through her teeth. A thousand hooks were pulling at her rib cage, making her want to scream. Harry's voice was sympathetic. "Try not to move so much. You dislocated a rib when you fell—I shouldn't wonder if it hurts." Seeming to know that he was about to receive a death glare, Harry disappeared from the room and reappeared less than ten seconds later, holding a goblet of something that smoked and smelled quite unpleasant. If the all-encompassing pain in her ribcage wasn't making simple things like speaking and insulting difficult, Ginny would have hexed him. Instead, she took the drink he offered and he ordered, "Drink it all and then I might make you breakfast. If you're nice to me and promise not to run away."

He was a Tunnel agent. There would be anti-Apparation shields for at least half a mile around his apartment. She didn't think that actual running was possible in her state, but she could hardly tell him that. Glaring at him to show his humour was unappreciated, she quaffed the drink and nearly gagged it back up. "What do they use for this?" she demanded. "Aardvark bogies?"

Harry grimaced. "I'm not even going to ask how you came up with that." He smiled and Ginny felt herself relax as the pain gave way into numbness. "Shall I go cook breakfast, then?"

"As long as it's not cold pizza." Ginny closed her eyes and sighed, knowing that she would have to take it easy the next couple of days and not liking that one bit. She had never quite learned the same inner stillness that several of her fellow agents celebrated, so she was usually a whirl of energy that flitted from one place to another without pause. Distracted, she ran a hand through her hair and winced; it was positively grimy, and her skin felt as though it had acquired a thick film of grease. 

The bed shook as Harry dropped a satchel—one of hers—onto the end. "Tara packed some clothes for you. Shower's down the hall, why don't you go get changed and get ready for the day? I told Ulysses that you would be at the afternoon practice to work out some logistics." He walked out with his hands in his pockets, way too awake for it to be such an early morning. Either that, or he was a morning person, and Ginny didn't exactly remember that from Hogwarts. She had seen him at far too many breakfasts, trying not to nod off into the cereal.

By the time she had showered and changed (inwardly thanking Tara for not including the hideous shirt the girl had been threatening to make her wear for years), Harry had managed to come up with a full breakfast, minus the tinned tomatoes. The dining room, living room, and kitchen were all one large room, an open, airy space that was quite neat, much to Ginny's surprise. She had expected the Hutch to be messy, but the little clutter that there was only made it look tastefully lived in. Harry had set the smallish dining room table with fancy plates. "Pulling out all the stops?" Ginny asked as she sat down.

She was determined to figure out what was going on without letting on that her memory was patchy. A loose memory was a weakness in her field, and while she was more content to lean on her brothers in the times where she was low, Harry had never fitted into that category. She had barely seen the guy in five years, excepting their rather interesting excursion to Tony's. _That_ had ended badly, she thought darkly. After Dermot left, she had barely been able to say a coherent word. Surely Harry had noticed her checking over her shoulder every other minute. Of course, she had recovered by the time that the Typhoon started meeting, but that didn't erase the memories.

"Making sure you eat something." Harry shrugged in answer to her question and handed her a glass of orange juice.

Ginny didn't really like orange juice, but she drank it anyway. She had learned long before to choose her battles, and this wasn't a battle she particularly wanted to fight. "Is this your way of making sure I stay healthy, then? Did my brothers put you up to this?"

"Call it a trade. I make you breakfast, keep you from killing yourself by working too hard, you give me information and let me help you solve the case." Harry took a glass of orange juice for himself and sat down in the seat across from her.

That was her main problem with family. They all wanted into the business in her life. Up until the night before, Harry had merely been a friend on the outskirts. Of course, whatever had happened last night (curse her, she still couldn't remember) had changed all of that in some way. She wasn't about to let that happen, bad memory or not. "No."

"Why not?" Harry dug into the scrambled eggs sprinkled with pieces of bacon, bell peppers, and cheese. He was completely nonchalant, and for that Ginny wanted to smack him upside the head. Instead, she focused on sampling her own breakfast. "I spent awhile going over the paperwork, logistics, and staring at the Glass Table." Ginny nodded; on her return to England, she had been introduced to the Glass Table, a mapping device. Harry had probably had a hand in making it.

"I haven't actually seen that work," she said conversationally.

His fork paused between his mouth and the plate. "Ginny, Ron used it to show us the Shack."

"The Shack?" She sighed again and gave into it—there was just no way she was going to get the fact that she was weak because she couldn't remember past Harry. "I'm sorry, I'm not sure what exactly is going on." Like why there was a huge scar running across her midriff or why she had even needed a pain potion. "Okay, I can't remember anything past you showing up at my house. Whatever happened—you're going to have to explain it all to me."

Now the fork fell, clattering against the edge of the plate and dropping farther onto the floor. "You don't remember? That's odd." A line appeared between Harry's eyebrows as he collected the fork from the floor and wiped it on his shirt. Normally, Ginny would have wrinkled her nose at this crass display, but she was focusing on her food rather than the reality that something might be wrong with her. "What day is it to you?"

She shook her head. "It should be Saturday…?"

"Actually, it's Monday. You've been sedated all weekend to help your side heal." Harry smiled apologetically at her outrage. "You came around for a few minutes last night—enough to play some poker with your brothers and I." He scratched his head. "I guess the medicine's been affecting your memory. The short version of it is that Ron interrupted our dinner to ask us to go fetch some Galleons in the Shrieking Shack."

"The haunted place in the middle of Hogsmeade?" Ginny could not resist a grin at that. "Lark about school had it that Malfoy saw your disembodied head there. Colin saw him—got a picture of him covered in mud."

"Really?" Harry's eyebrows went up. "I'd like a copy of that one. My mantle's been looking empty as of late. Anyway, truth is, it's not haunted. It's where Remus went during the full moons when he was at Hogwarts. And my disembodied head _did _have a body. Malfoy just couldn't see it."

"Uh-huh." Ginny nodded and decided that she would rather not know. "So, what does that have to do with the fact that I felt somebody had my liver on a fish-hook when I woke up this morning?"

"Well, it turns out that the Shack is a 'hotbed for dark activity,' as Ron likes to put it, so we were both sent in."

"Oh. I can imagine that I didn't like that. I don't work well with others."

Harry rolled his eyes emphatically and she grinned at him, unapologetic. She had done it before and would probably do it again if the situation called for it. Unpredictability was her thing. "Of course. You told Ron and I you were going to get your helmet and Apparated directly to the site. I stopped you before you could do anything stupid, but that turned out useless. The floor collapsed under you on the second floor. You impaled yourself on a broken beam and basically hit, ruptured, or just damaged every important thing in your middle. I read the medical report—you're almost a modern miracle."

No wonder she had felt like her stomach was on fire. Ginny winced and looked down at her eggs. She was almost afraid to ask. "What did my brothers do?"

"The nurses were able to mend my broken jaw without any problem, and I'm not touching anything that's been within five miles of Fred and George, if that gives you any perspective."

Ginny groaned and closed her eyes. Her brothers could be a right pain in the neck when they wanted to be. Attacking Harry was out of line even for them. He was obviously upset that he hadn't been able to save her—hadn't they seen that? "I'll talk to them."

"No need. Your mum read them the riot act after the first eight times I turned into a chicken yesterday." Amusement glittered in the green eyes that looked at her over an orange juice glass. "They were just frustrated that I couldn't save you. Even if I don't quite agree with their methods, I understand how they feel."

"Still, it's not fair what they did to you."

"It's not, but I don't really care." Harry shrugged and looked at her sincerely. "I'm not afraid of your family. The fact that they're willing to throw a punch at me and then sit next to me in a waiting room more than tells me I'm accepted into the family—and better me than the next nurse to walk out of the emergency room without news." He took a bite of egg, his tone all too light-hearted for what he was saying. Ginny frowned at him as she finally decided to eat. "Quit giving me that look. You'll get wrinkles."

Either way, she decided, she was going to talk to Ron, for there was no doubt in her mind that Ron had thrown the punch. He could be rational when he was angry—unless she was hurt. Then he became irrational all too quickly. It had been one of the reasons she had taken the internship in Prague and then transferred out to Alabama. Ron didn't know the dangerous stunts she pulled that way. Well, occasionally he did, but he could usually be placated through a fire-call or something of that nature. "You can't tell me you really enjoyed getting that broken jaw."

"If by enjoyed you mean, I hated it and him for a good ten minutes, then yes, of course I did." Harry's grin was way too cheerful to be natural, she decided. "Eat some breakfast. Ron and Hermione should be here soon with the whole line of questioning you probably don't want to answer."

"Can't you tell them I'm asleep?"

"And risk another punch? I think not. Eat up."

Hermione and Ron trundled into the Hutch twenty minutes later, just as Harry was collecting the dishes to be put in the sink and Ginny was headed back into the room she had left her things in to collect them. To her surprise, they held two suitcases. "These are yours," Hermione told her once she had tutted and Ron had hugged Ginny long enough to make sure that she was not going to wilt away on them. "We've got the final analysis of the mission done, and you're not going to like it."

"If it were up to me, I'd ship you to a safe house in Madagascar," Ron grumbled, taking the mug of coffee that Harry passed his way. Hermione took her own coffee and settled on one of the wing-back chairs, indicating that the others should be seated as well. Ginny and Harry took the couch, a plush, blue affair, leaving the other wing-back chair to Ron. "We found Agent Darrow today—alive and in the cellar of an abandoned house in Hogsmeade. His report confirms it. Dermot was behind all of this." Ginny felt her blood ice over at her brother's words. Surely, Dermot hadn't managed to sneak into the European Tunnel, too? He'd followed her to Australia—now it was starting to become terrifying. Soon Ron would be forced to take protective measures. Who knew when she would get her life back then? She was on enough of a leash now. "He planted the Galleons, laid the trap. I think Harry's presence threw him from using a direct Killing Curse."

_I'm going to be sick_, thought Ginny rather distantly. _I'm going to throw up all over Hermione's buckle-shoes. _She didn't particularly want to be sick all over the shoes, for she remembered that Hermione really liked them, but the fear that overwhelmed her was having none of it.

"He cast the spell to weaken the floor, not realising that we would be able to detect it through the Glass Table," Ron continued. "He was Polyjuiced as Scotty Darrow, the agent we had on the scene. The whole thing was a giant trap and we walked into it like a bunch of first-years."

"What does this mean for the Tunnel, then?" Ginny asked, still staring at Hermione's shoes with a morbid fascination not to be sick all over them.

"Changes are underway. This is the first time this morning that Hermione and I have managed to escape the meetings long enough to deliver your things." Ron caught the expression on Ginny's face before she could voice her thoughts and held up a finger. "Everybody who has authorisation for the information concerning Dermot has had a say in this case and they all believe Harry would be the best protection for you until we can get Dermot into custody."

When Ginny opened her mouth to protest that they had no right to do this, Harry reached over and slapped a hand over the lower half of her face. She glared at him and tried to grab his wrist, but he lowered the hand on his own and said, "The Australian and American Directors have already sent documentation that they wish you to be under protective custody until the threat is removed. Your only other choice but to comply would be to leave the Tunnel." He said it gently, but Ginny still felt the impact of the situation hit her like a broomstick handle to the stomach. "So you're going to have a bodyguard for the next few weeks."

"Well, never let it be said that I ever disagreed with the Dream Team, then. Fine, stick a bodyguard on my case. It'll delay Dermot maybe a week, if we're lucky." Ginny sighed and stood, glad that nobody stopped her as she left the room, collecting her suitcases as she left. Harry had her situated in the guest bedroom, so she threw the suitcases onto the bed and sat down in the desk chair, dropping her head into her hands as she rubbed her temples. Her day was already turning out to look hellish, and it wasn't even noon yet. She heard quiet chatter in the living area and chose to ignore it instead of eavesdropping, suddenly feeling way too weary for her own good.

*

"So what are these rumours I hear about you and pretty Miss Mason?" Bear asked, grinning broadly as he and Harry stopped at the cooler balanced on one of the stands to grab a drink. The air might have cooled them a bit, but it was still a hot day and Dave was definitely not one of the coaches that relied on natural skill. He had drilled them nearly to the point of death in the morning practice, and now that the afternoon practice had rolled around, he was looking to finish the job. Every time Harry felt his attention wander, Dave would throw something at him to keep him on his toes.

Harry swallowed a long drink of water and dribbled some on his forehead. "Rumours," he said simply. "Amy Mason would hardly look my direction twice, much less snog me in an empty broom cupboard." He needed to hunt down whoever had started that rumour and beat them over the head with a stick. They had gone with the story that they were flatmates, but romantic entanglements were almost too much for him to handle. She didn't like it much—and neither did he, for that matter—but there wasn't much that could be done about it. "'Sides, I don't think she likes me very much at the moment." Well, that much was true. She had been on the verge of hitting him all day.

"She doesn't like you? Well, that's news." Bear laughed, a deep, rumbling laugh that made Harry wonder at the source of his nickname. "Have you _not_ seen the way she looks at you? Man, you are one lucky bloke."

Harry lowered the water glass to gape at his teammate. Ginny had given him the cold shoulder the second that they had left for the practice, and had spent a good deal of time glaring at him. "Bear—have you had your eyes checked recently?"

"Something's going on. She's always looked at you like this." And Bear gave him a look that was such a poor mockery of a smitten expression that Harry splashed the rest of his water at the Keeper. "Whatever you said to her, it must have been bad."

Ginny was in the stands on the other side of the field, a thick notebook open on her lap as she dictated words to her quill. Her darker hair did not have quite the glimmer in the sun, but it was still very easy to pick her out of the occasional fan there to check out the new team. Sensing the attention of the two men by the cooler, she looked up and glared before going back to her notes. "Unfortunately," Harry sighed, "I haven't said anything." _Yet,_ he added mentally. Hermione and Ron had interrupted what he had hoped would be a good morning for the two of them to work out some details. He knew they were just doing their jobs, but a part of him wished they would back off and let him do his. "Look, I'm going to go work out whatever this is while we're on break."

Bear laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. Harry winced; the Keeper may have been lanky, but he was strong, too. And almost unaware of that strength, unfortunately. "Ask her to come drinking with us."

"Why would I do that? She hates me. Did you not see the glare she _just_ sent our way?"

A glimmer of amusement shone in Bear's eyes. "Tracy says that she'll pay for the rounds tonight if you convince Miss Mason to go with us. And a proper gentleman knows not to turn down a free drink—especially if a lady's paying!"

Laughing, Harry waved him off and flew away. His laughter disappeared as he neared Ginny, however. She had not been happy when they Floo'd to work and he doubted that her mood had changed much since. Her agenda had already included a meeting with Ulysses Davenport, and Harry knew that she had been forced to collaborate with Simon Bates several times already. The man was detestable enough, but put a calendar in front of him and it made Harry want to slug him. He could only imagine how Ginny felt.

He took his time dismounting and smiled at her. "What are you working on?"

She didn't look up. "Reservations at various inns. I'm lucky there are only seven of you—plus the reserves—and not like twenty eight or twenty nine." She sighed and rolled her shoulders, finally looking up. Weariness clouded into every line on her face, nearly punching him with its obviousness. "I can't wait until this day is over."

"Ron and Hermione wanted to come over for dinner," Harry offered, knowing that would make her wince, "but I told them to stay out for a couple of days. We both need some space to deal with the new arrangements."

She looked far more grateful than he had expected. "Imagine what Mum would say if she found out I were moving in with an unmarried man." Shielding her eyes, she looked up at the field, where the team could be found doing various activities. The Chasers were pulling off simple passes while the Beaters played catch with their bats. Bear hovered above the ground, chatting amiably with Dave Davenport and Simon Bates. "So what are you doing over here?"

There were several ways to go about this, and Harry knew that playing the clumsy fool wasn't the way to do it. "Asking you out for drinks."

"Harry, you know that—"

"Let me put it this way: I want to go out and have drinks with the team, but I can't do that without you being there. _And _Tracy says she'll pay if I manage to convince you to come." Harry ducked down so that his face was close to hers and gave her his most charming grin, knowing that both the grin and the closeness would fluster her. She reddened slightly, but raised an eyebrow at him. "What?"

"We're not going to Tony's, are we?"

"And be voted off the team? I think we'll just go to a normal pub. He sent flowers, you know." They were sitting in a vase atop his table—at first he had thought that they were Bill's addition, but a scrawled card had Tony's name on it. The guy was just a big softie inside, despite the fact that he ran the most dangerous pub on this side of the Channel.

"I know. I saw them." Ginny sighed to herself and looked down at her paperwork. "A pub, Harry? Are you _trying_ to make Ron angry? This is a sure-fire way to go about it. He wants me on House Arrest the whole time, doesn't he?"

The Tunnel Director had said several things to that nature, but Harry chose to selectively forget them. "Either way, I'm your bodyguard, not him. Besides, it's kind of important that you get to know the team. That's your job, too, and letting Dermot keep you from that is letting him win." He shrugged lightly, mounted his broom again. Half a field away, the Chasers looked to be setting up for an inverted Hawkshead Formation, and that always meant that practice was starting again. "Try to stay near the team?" he asked as he prepared to fly away.

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Are you going to be this paranoid the whole time?"

Instead of answering, Harry put a hand on her side and looked at her seriously when she winced. She had been keeping the strain from her face, but he knew that she hadn't been taking it as easily as he had requested earlier. He frowned. She was going to run herself into a high fever if she kept this up. "I meant what I said earlier. Take it easy, or I _will_ listen to Ron and put you on house arrest. Understand me?"

Before she could spin a retort, he was off and flying towards where Bear was discussing tactics with Tad and Frank.

*

Harry towelled his hair with his free hand, not really caring that it stuck up in damp tufts like a messy crown around his head. To that effect, he was clad only in an old pair of sweatpants and socks, for there was nobody around to see him in his current state. Ginny had stumbled into her room so tiredly that Harry knew she would be out until morning. And Ron preferred to use the telephone and not the fire, so he didn't have to worry about keeping up appearances.

"No, we weren't avoiding the phone when you called," Harry told his best friend now, his voice perfectly affable. Between the six of them, the Weasley brothers had left thirty messages on his answering machine. Even Percy had come down from his high horse long enough to check in, although his message was rather pompous, making Harry glad that he listened to it after Ginny had gone to bed. She didn't need to hear her brother being so high-handed when she already felt pushed around by everybody in her life. "We just weren't here."

"What?!"

"You heard me. We went out for drinks." Harry slung the towel over his shoulders and opened the icebox to check inside. Hermione had done him a favour and had gone grocery shopping for him. Now that he wasn't exactly living the life of the bachelor set apart, he needed to survive on a little more than takeout and omelettes. He selected a tube of yoghurt and opened that, shovelling a spoonful into his mouth before Ron's tirade began.

"You ignore her for six years at Hogwarts and then for five years after, and now that she's got a deranged stalker on her trail, you're interested in taking her out for drinks?! Harry—that's just—"

"Just what?" Harry's voice was dangerously soft.

"Are you daft, mate? What, do you only fall for girls with issues?" Genuine frustration entered Ron's voice, and Harry wasn't sure if it was because he was interested in Ron's sister or if his friend was looking out for his sake. Either way, Harry gritted his teeth and squared his stance, unconsciously preparing himself for a fight. "First that mess with Cho and then all of those meaningless dates, and now my sister?"

That was too far. Ron had not only crossed the line, but he had turned around and spit on it. Harry opened his mouth to tell him exactly where Ron could stuff that idea, but a hand closed over the bottom of the phone. Before he could whirl around, Ginny crowded into the space in front of him. Any traces of sleepiness had dissipated into confusion and concern. Brow furrowed, she looked from Harry to the phone that she was holding between them. "It's Ron," Harry muttered, none too happy that she had cut his rant off before it had even had a chance to start. "He's not happy that we went out for drinks."

"Let me talk to him."

"I don't think you want to do tha—" But she had already snatched the phone from him and was holding to against the side of her face. Left with no other choice but to surrender gracefully, he shrugged and took a bite of yoghurt. "Okay, then."

"Just what do you think you're doing, _Ronald_?" Ginny demanded into the phone with such acidity that for one amusing moment, Harry thought he saw a glimpse of her mother's temper in her. He was also incredibly glad that that temper was not directed at him. "Uh-uh! Don't you 'Now, Ginny' me. Listen, I've had it up to here with you and your bloody overprotective self! I don't know where you got the idea that I'm still young and naïve from, but you can stuff that idea up that arrogant bum of yours!"

Harry took a seat at the table to watch the spectacle unfold. He wondered idly if he should make popcorn or something to that nature, and then decided that he would rather not face Ginny's wrath at all. Staying out of the way seemed to be a really good idea at that point.

Ginny, meanwhile, was getting more and more fed up with whatever it was that Ron had to say on the other end of the line. To Harry's amusement, she actually stomped her foot at him. "Whether or not you're trying to 'protect' me, Ron, is a moot point right now! Now shut up and listen! Harry is a very good at his job, and if you'd let him do it for once, you would see the same thing I see! He hasn't let me out of his sights all day, and don't you for one minute think that he was anything but a gentleman the whole time! The next time you see him, you will apologise to him for punching him in the hospital. Honestly, I thought you were more grown up than that. I chose to go on that mission, and I accepted the consequences when they came. It wasn't Harry's fault and you bloody well knew that!"

Harry took another bite of yoghurt, relieved that he was on this end of the phone line.

When Ginny hung up the phone five minutes later, she looked ironically serene, as though she hadn't just finished ripping her brother to pieces. She sat down at the small kitchen table after retrieving her own yoghurt, and the two ate in a companionable silence for a minute, not really sure if they wanted to discuss the phone call. Finally, Ginny's gaze zeroed in on Harry's face. "What was he saying to you before I came in here?"

"It was nothing."

"You looked like you were ready to kill him. Given the relationship you and Ron have, that's not nothing."

Well, nobody could ever claim that Ginny Weasley was not perceptive, Harry thought to himself as he hid a wince. He bought himself a minute by contemplating a heaping spoonful of yoghurt. With a sigh, he set it down. "It wasn't that big of a deal."

"Nuh-uh. I just spent five minutes tearing my brother a new one. I at least want to hear what he said to get my rant started." Ginny pointed her spoon at him and took another bite of her own yoghurt. Talking around that, she informed him, "It's only fair, you know."

Harry very much wanted to say that life wasn't fair, but decided against it. "He was just going on about my…dating habits." He shrugged, hoping to leave it at that, but Ginny was too smart to be waylaid by indifference. She narrowed her eyes at him and he sighed. "All right. He thought we went on a date. I certainly didn't inform him otherwise. That got him started on how I apparently only 'go after' girls with issues. There was Cho, my stint with the airheads of society—although I will argue that the twins set me up on each and every one of those dates until I am blue in the face and cold in my grave—and now you. You've got a stalker, so apparently that makes you attractive to me."

Ginny let out an almighty groan. "My brother may be the British Tunnel Director, but he's clearly not the brightest flamingo in the yard when it comes to romance."

"I'll say. Remember that horrid plant he got Hermione for her eighteenth birthday? I don't care what anybody says—that thing liked blood, not plant food."

"I still can't forget that awful perfume."

"She still has that, you know. Only I don't think she wears it. She keeps it in this little bottle on her vanity. I saw it one time when I went over to their apartment." With the yoghurt gone, Harry began balancing pieces of the plastic fruit they kept in a bowl for decoration on the end of his spoon handle. He then tried to launch them, but his first attempt rolled off and failed miserably. He tried again.

"So. When were you going to tell me that they're married?"

Harry looked up so quickly that he was certain there would be a cramp in his neck come morning. "How did you find out?" He and Ron guarded that information with a tenacity that surprised Hermione—they did it for the Tunnel, and for Hermione's job in the Department of Mysteries, but Hermione was more lackadaisical about keeping the whole thing a secret. Harry inwardly thought that she just wanted the marriage to be public altogether. In time, they would hold an actual ceremony, but for now the hurried vows exchanged at a courthouse in London would have to do.

"Dragged it out of Hermione while you were in the bathroom at dinner." For Hermione, masquerading as one of Amy Mason's friends, had showed up at the practice field and gushed over Harry so much that he laughingly invited them both to dinner before the team went out for drinks. Now Ginny shrugged and mimicked Harry's actions with her own spoon and a plastic pear. Her attempt sailed into the air and bounced off of Harry's elbow. "It wasn't that hard, actually. I'm sensing that there are some issues between her and Ron about this."

"You're right, then." Harry bent to retrieve a rogue grape. "The situation is basically to protect each other. They're both high in the Tunnel ranks, and Hermione is an Unspeakable to boot. If they remain boyfriend and girlfriend to the public eye, it's not as serious and it might save them from being a negotiating tool against each other. I tell them constantly that they're both mad, but they're too paranoid to listen to me."

"Haven't changed a bit." Ginny shook her head. "So how does Mum feel about their living in sin?"

This made Harry smile. Keeping the whole thing from Molly Weasley was one of the things Ron worked hardest at, and the near-misses, while exhilaratingly frightening, were always the subject of much ribbing between Ron, the twins, and Harry for weeks at a time. Hermione always tutted at them for it, but Harry suspected that she was too relieved about their knowing to be too mad at the lot of them. "She doesn't know about it. She thinks Ron and I are still flatmates. In fact, she keeps bothering him about getting a ring."

This provoked a smile. "That must be annoying."

"Oh, downright exasperating. He's even stopped turning red, although I suspect he's quickly running out of excuses."

Ginny regarded her spoon with an interest that Harry recognised to be hiding amusement. "So, only you and the twins know?"

"Bill does. And Angelina. They needed a woman, and while they wanted to wait for you, you were still in Australia and nobody was willing to patch Ron through, even with his security clearance. So Angelina was the next-best choice, and to get her to do it, we had to tell the twins, too."

"Angelina and Hermione aren't all that close, are they?"

"No—which is why I get to hear _every_ side of every argument they have." Harry rolled his eyes and then gave her a look when she started giggling at her. "Seriously, do you know how annoying it is to be the sole dumping grounds for a newly married couple? It's no picnic, let me tell you."

Ginny grinned and laid a hand on his arm. The contact, while simple, was enough to draw all of his attention. He had grown used to Hermione's tactile ways over the years, but Ginny's touch brought out a new flush of feelings that Harry wasn't sure he had ever felt before. Luckily, his poker face had improved or he would be in seriously hot water right now. "Harry, I organise events like weddings for a living—sort of. I know that feeling all too well."

He focused his attention in launching two grapes at her at once. "Sometimes I think that they're just hesitant to plan a big wedding. It'd have to be a society wedding, almost, with all of the people that they know."

"Why not throw them a surprise wedding, then?" Ginny offered. "You have the right connections to pull that sort of thing off—as well as your very own wedding planner." She tilted her head and almost beamed at him. Harry stared at her, the concept of doing something like that for his best friends swirling about in his mind in discombobulated patterns. The idea had never even crossed his mind before. But now that Ginny had mentioned it, it was already starting to germinate and wrap roots of steel around the entirety of his mind. He frowned slightly as smaller ideas fell from the original and jumbled together. "Harry? Feeling okay over there? I didn't give you a heart attack, did I?"

"What? No—no, I'm fine." He mentally composed himself to let the more coherent ideas break through the shock. "Would that work? Us throwing them a surprise wedding?"

"Us?"

"Naturally, us. He's your brother, isn't he? And you know what Hermione likes better than I do." Excited now, Harry ignored the mess of plastic fruit on the table and crossed the kitchen, yanking a sheaf of parchment out of one of the drawers, dumping it and two quills on the table. Ginny hurried to clear some of the clutter out of the way, and each grabbed a quill. "I think I can afford this if you're willing to help me out."

Ginny grabbed one of the quills and smiled over at him, amusement making her eyes shimmer so brightly that he beamed back at her through his distraction. "Twenty minutes ago, you were ready to murder him, and now you're planning his wedding?"

"Smarter people have claimed me to be bipolar. Sometimes I even agree with them." Harry began writing figures down on the parchment in front of him and whistled lowly. Seeing the amounts of his fortune written down on paper always amazed him. "Although I don't think they're going to get Christmas presents for at least a decade, if not more, unless they like complimentary tickets to my matches." He grinned and slid the sheet across to her. "Do you think I can afford it?"

She looked a bit dazed at the sum written there. "As long as the plates aren't made out of pure gold, I think you should be able to, actually."

A knock at the door made both of them jump. Ginny looked sheepish, but Harry reached for his wand and motioned her to stay put, an alert mask sliding in place. Without a second glance, he headed to the front door of the Hutch, pausing only to scoop up a discarded shirt from the back of the couch and shove that over his head. A quick spell at the door turned it green—indicating that one or both of the twins was standing on the other side. Relief was visible as he opened the door. "Hey, Fred, George. Bit late even for you, isn't it?"

"Harry! Don't tell me you forgot about the game tonight!" George clapped him on the shoulder as both of them shouldered past him, obviously intent to make sure that Ginny was all right. Harry smiled at their backs before turning to shut the door behind them. A flash of white in the corner of his eye made him pause before closing the door, and he poked his head into the corridor, wand out. Both of his neighbours had retired for the evening, he confirmed with a glance at the other two doors in the hallway. The single bulb flickered a couple of times as he took the time to check for any foreign presence with a spell. It came up clear.

He was about to shut the door when he saw it—a small quarter of Muggle paper was lying on the plastic doormat Hermione had purchased as a housewarming present for her two best friends. It was folded over several times and had marks from the twins' shoes atop it. A muttered charm proved it to be free of any sort of magic, dangerous or not. Curious, Harry picked it up and unfolded it. There were no words, to his consternation. Instead, somebody had taken a thick black marker and had slashed bold lines across the entirety of the page. Although it was obvious that the person who had drawn this was no artist, the lines were drawn with a sureness that indicated the sender was very confident in his message. This was no child's drawing, dropped on the way to or from another flat. This was a deliberate strike.

Across the page was the very likeness of a cat chasing a mouse. The sinking pit in Harry's stomach told him that he knew exactly who the mouse was. He stood there with one hand on the doorknob and the other holding the paper for a long time, debating whether or not to show this to Ginny. On the one hand, she would be furious if he kept it from her, but if she never found out, he wouldn't have to worry about it. However, she was perceptive enough not to take that risk. He would have to show her after the twins left, he decided heavily.

He returned to the kitchen to find Ginny and the twins leaning over a the same sheet of parchment, muttering back and forth as though afraid to be overheard. He dropped the drawing into a drawer and collected bottles of Butterbeer from the cold larder, setting those on the table as he sat down. "So, what are the plans?"

"It's brilliant," Fred commented. "Our younger brother may be a bit daft, but throwing him a wedding would be absolutely perfect. 'Sides, Ginny's already promised us a few pranks—"

"Minor ones," Ginny interjected without looking up from the list she was scribbling.

"—If we help out," George finished for his brother. He waved a piece of parchment, his grin wider than a Cheshire Cat's. "We even have that in writing."

Fred took the sheet from his brother and pretended to blow on the ink, smirking widely. He pocketed it and then looked at her expectantly. "So—what are your thoughts on this, then? Can we pull it off, even with my wedding coming up?"

"Ballpark figure…" Ginny finally looked away from her work. "Why don't we plan it for next summer? With the autumn wedding you're having, Fred, that would give Mum plenty of time between weddings. Plus, it'd be a lot easier to hold a wedding outside in these circumstances. It would have to be Muggle attire—Hermione's Muggle-born."

"Can we keep it a secret that long?" George wondered. "I mean, Fred and I are good at secrets, but you two…?" He moved to elbow Ginny, but pulled back just in time, remembering the fact that she had nearly been gutted like a fish a few days before. Only Harry caught the brief look of guilt that crossed his face.

"Hush, you." Ginny narrowed her eyes at her older brother, who recovered and smugly readjusted the robin's egg blue fedora he had worn over to the Hutch. "A year would be ideal—it would give Harry and I time to adjust to our new jobs with the Typhoon, you two would have more time to develop the pranks you feel you need for this momentous occasion, it would be enough time to get all of the others prepared and get everybody into town on the same day. Plus, Hermione told me that she's always wanted a spring wedding, and we just can't throw this type of thing together properly in a month."

Harry retrieved a day-planner from the end table in the living room and flipped to the April of the next year. "How about April seventh?" he asked, contemplating the calendar. "That's a nice number, seven. Like the number of years we were at Hogwarts."

"Works for me." Ginny inked in the date on her list. "So the wedding should be on April seventh of next year. Where should we hold it?"

"The Burrow." It was Harry that suggested it, and both of the twins nodded emphatically in agreement. "Hermione loves the house, and we could set up the proper wards there without worrying about stepping on any toes."

"That field behind the house would work perfectly," Fred pointed out. "You know—the one where we play Quidditch."

"Ron _would_ love that. Remember that one time he flew into that tree when he tried to block that goal?"

"Should have known he was a star Keeper from that move alone. Oh—remember the time we dyed his hair green in the middle of a match?"

"Took him three hours to notice it. Even Mum played along for that one."

By the time the twins bid their adieus nearly two hours later, they had Ginny and Harry in stitches from all of the memories they had dredged up of Ron, and even a few of Hermione. Wedding plans quickly dissolved into nostalgia as the four swapped amusing stories of the two's relationship, covering everything from the baked Quaffle incident to their very first meeting, compliments of Harry. It was Ginny who laughingly suggested they give Trevor the Toad, long cold in a shoe box buried behind Hagrid's hut, a seat of honour at the head table. Fred and George offered to help spring for the bill, insisting that Harry shouldn't shoulder all of the burden. They seemed positive that even Percy would want to contribute to the fund, and Harry found himself being relieved despite himself.

Ginny gathered up their notes while Harry moved to clean up the empty bottles of Butterbeer and scattered pieces of fruit. "We need a code word," she decided, flipping through the sheaf. The twins had been bursting with suggestions, and some of them had been quite good.

"Hmm?"

"A code word for—Oh, never mind." Ginny broke off to give him a funny look. "Harry, is something wrong? Ever since the twins arrived, you've been kind of…out of it."

He didn't bother to stumble over himself or try to hide the fact that he was hiding something. Instead, he wordlessly crossed to the drawer and collected the cat and mouse drawing. "Your ex has been by. He saw fit to leave us this lovely little likeness."

Some people might have paled, but Ginny just glanced at the sheet and said, "Throw it away. He's trying to stake his territory by letting you know that he knows I'm here." She sounded so much like she was talking about maybe a piece of junk mail that Harry stared. "What?"

"Just throw it away? Ginny, if this guy knows where you are—"

"He's probably known where am I before I was even here." Ginny reached out and pried the paper from his hand, crumpling it up and tossing it cleanly into the trash bin. "Relax, Harry. He won't touch me while I'm here. That's not the way he operates."

She seemed to be taking this too calmly. Harry narrowed his eyes in reply to her statement and stepped forward, purposely crowding her space so that she would be forced to meet his gaze. His half-year of Auror training had taught him this trick, and now he finally had a chance to use it. Right now he wasn't interested in celebrating—he was worried, and the fact that Ginny was so nonchalant about this whole ordeal was just intensifying the anxiety. He was supposed to be protecting her, but he couldn't do that if he didn't know what he was protecting her from. "Then how _does _he operate?" he asked pointedly.

His proximity didn't seem to hold any power over her. Instead, she just squinted at him for a second, and then slipped around him to finish cleaning up the kitchen. "You're my bodyguard, for all intents and purposes. Haven't you read the file?" she asked innocently. "He used to be a Tunnel agent. My partner, in fact."

"I would have read the file had it not disappeared from the American Tunnel Headquarters the same day you transferred to Australia." Harry turned and crossed his arms at her, not intending to let her innocent air slip anything past him. "As it is, I had to settle on profiles of the Ladykiller, none of which they had bothered to connect with the name Dermot Raine. I know for a fact that those files are at your flat."

"Would you be willing to place your life on that?"

"Yes, because I've got the duplicates in the safe in my room. Tara was happy to oblige, once I explained the whole situation to her."

Because he was specifically watching her face, he got a close view of the emotions that flitted across the expanse before she got a hold of herself. "So Tara was the weak link in my chain, then," she observed, her voice betraying none of the hurt that had shown on her face just instants earlier.

"No, Tara wants to protect you. As it is, I had to give her accounts of five different tales of your Hogwarts days, name all of your brothers, and dance a jig before she could hand over the duplicates." As he had hoped, the last chore drew a ghost of a smile across her face. "I could have read them at any time this weekend, but I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt. I want you to tell me yourself." _To trust me_, he wanted to add, but he knew better. He and Ginny had just met eight days before after five years of being apart. Even with the chemistry that was evident between them, saying something like that would just ruin all chances they had of developing any further rapport. Trust was earned, not gained.

She paused, wavering on the subject. Finally, a relenting light came into her eyes. "Give me until tomorrow to smooth out the rough edges?"

A glance at the clock told him it was nearly three a.m. Morning practice had been cancelled, but afternoon practice would still be terrible unless he got some sleep soon. "Over dinner? I think I can swing for takeout, since going out again will give Ron a coronary. I'm afraid our social calendars will be severely cut soon."

Her smile revealed just how much exhaustion she was fighting. She was a pretty good actress to have him (and the twins) fooled the entire time. For the first time that evening, she actually swayed on her feet. "Deal."

"Great." Harry gave her a push towards her room. "Now go get some sleep. I'll finish up in here. Good night, Ginny."

"G'night."

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A/N the Second: Should I just give up on this story or are you all actually interested? Let me know!


	4. Diamond Bludger

A/N: First I'd like to thank _everybody_ for those wonderful reviews of Chapter Three! You guys really inspired me! I promise, I'm actually going to finish this story…and it's going to have a _plot_, and everything! Doesn't that make you excited? You guys are awesome!!

Disclaimer: JKR's wonderful, isn't she? This is hers, not mine. No money being made here, no sir.

****

Chapter Four: Diamond Bludger

When Harry finally staggered out of his room somewhere between noon and two o'clock the next afternoon, he blinked rather blearily at the scene that was presented to him. "Er…?"

He and Ron weren't completely socially inept—which, of course, took much work on Hermione's part. Harry still felt he had her and the twins to blame for the fact that he could schmooze at big-wig parties now—but never had Harry seen this many women in the living room of the Hutch. For one intense moment, he was grateful that he hadn't slept in boxers for the first time in six years. He'd collapsed onto his bed in the shirt and sweatpants he had been wearing all through the discussion with various Weasleys in the kitchen the night before. His hair was sticking up in funnier patterns that normal, and he desperately needed a shave, but those were rather minor things. First, he had to figure out just why there were nine women in his living room.

Ginny herself was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of one of the wing-backed chairs Hermione had forced him to purchase a couple of years before, leaning back against the legs of another woman. She had a large white book spread in her lap and several stacked on the floor in front of her. "Took you long enough to wake up. Ron's been calling all morning." Seeing his pointed look, she sighed. "Oh, yes, and these are my friends. Some of them are co-workers."

"Hi, Harry!" called a familiar voice, and Harry turned to see the Harrows twins sitting on the loveseat against the far wall.

"Stacy—Tracy—nice to see you. Oh, hi, Mel. Didn't see you there." Melinda Warren, the third Chaser for the Typhoon was seated on the floor in front of them, paging through a book similar to the ones Ginny had stacked around her. She looked up at Harry's greeting and gave him a mute smile before going back to her book. Harry had yet to hear her speak. The whole team just called her Mel and when she needed to ask for something, the Harrows twins usually spoke for her. Harry couldn't figure out if she was shy or just physically couldn't talk.

Not really interested in trying to come up with a story to convince the team of why they spent so much time together, Harry and Ginny had finally decided just to tell the others that they were flatmates and leave it at that. Besides, now that Dermot was a threat, they were flatmates, so it wasn't like they were lying about anything. Harry would just have to remember to call her Amy in front of Mel and the Harrows twins.

"What, no hello for me?" Angelina pretended outrage that Harry hadn't spotted her among the group. In response, he crossed to her and dropped a kiss on her cheek, apologising that he wasn't the brightest paint on the palette until he at least had a cup of coffee. "Oh, that's better then."

Harry turned slowly to look at the remaining four women in the party. Three of them, he had never laid eyes on before, but he remembered Ginny's flatmate, Tara, from their two conversations. After all, Tara had given him access to the files about Dermot, although Harry had learned everything about the situation from Bill. Harry greeted her and made his exit before Ginny could drag him into whatever sort of party she was having. He enhanced the lock on his door and showered quickly, throwing some Muggle clothing on. Returning to the kitchen, he dialled Ron's number while he waited for the coffee to finish brewing.

"Oi, mate, what took you so long?" was Ron's greeting.

With all of the giggling in the background, Harry didn't bother to try and hide the fact that he and Ginny weren't alone in the flat. "There's been an invasion at our house, apparently. Ginny's got friends over."

He could practically hear the storm brewing between Ron's ears. "Friends?" he asked slowly, obviously trying to keep his cool. "The both of you are supposed to be keeping a low profile. You go out for drinks last night, and today she throws a party?"

"Angelina and Tara are here. I think they're running interference should anything happen. And whether or not we have friends over doesn't really matter. Dermot knows where she's staying." Harry let that bombshell drop while he rooted through the cabinets for a mug. The kitchen sink was full of dirty dishes, so he shot a cleaning charm at them, grateful that he didn't have to bother with soap and water anymore. "He was kind enough to deliver a little drawing last night."

"In person?" Ron's voice was dangerously soft.

"Left it outside the front door. I strengthened the wards last night after Ginny went to bed. She's as safe here as she would be in any of the safehouses." Harry took a long sip of coffee—felt the warmth curl his toes. He sat down at the kitchen table and scanned the _Daily Prophet_. "What I don't get is why this guy's taken the sudden offensive. I flipped through the files, read the profiles that are set up on the Witch Hunter connected to the Dermot Raine personality. He's more the type that prefers to lie in wait, not making any big strikes until the trapped woman is completely unsuspecting. He's noted for doing absolutely nothing that might give away his identity. Yet he's made a public appearance and left us a drawing of a cat and mouse. Why the change in MO?"

Now Ron just sounded old. "Probably because his regular MO didn't work on Ginny."

Harry spit coffee all over the front of the paper in shock. The soggy pictures glared at him, furious when he added insult to injury by dropping the paper. "What? Ginny was one of Witch Hunter's targets before? I thought she was just tracking him!" _Bill,_ he thought very viciously, _I'm going to kill you_. Bill had given him a very brief version of the story the week before, claiming that Ginny had transferred merely because she had figured out that her partner Dermot was the Witch Hunter. However, her being a victim threw things into an entirely different light. It was one thing if Dermot was trying to kill her because she had unearthed him—it was an entirely different level if he was trying to finish a job that had been set in motion a couple of years before.

"Now do you see why I want to wrap her in cotton and send her to Madagascar?" Ron sighed heavily. "We're lucky we found Scotty alive just in time. Too much longer in that safe and he would have suffocated." He and Harry had spent a sleepless night waiting for any news from the agents that were scouring the Hogsmeade area, hoping to find their missing agent. By the time the agents had thought to check the lake between Hogsmeade and Hogwarts, Scotty's precious supply of oxygen had almost depleted. He was on vacation from the Tunnel at the moment, and Harry knew that he was really struggling with whether or not he wanted to come back to the organisation. Nearly a full night spent in a safe in the bottom of a lake tended to put things like that into perspective.

"Who's that on the phone, Harry?" Angelina queried as she padded, barefoot, into the kitchen.

Harry smiled at her to hide any of the storm that had been raging across his face a moment before. With his mug, he indicated the fresh pot of coffee. "Your future brother-in-law."

"Ah…that narrows it down oh-so-much." Rolling her eyes sarcastically, Angelina poured herself a cup of coffee and wandered back into the other room.

"It's Ron!" he called after her. The giggling increased in the other room, and he rolled his eyes.

"Blimey, Harry. How many women do you have over there?"

"Current count is nine." The doorbell rang and high-pitched greetings could be heard tossed across the room. "Wait, scratch that. Make that ten."

"Ten women at your flat on a Tuesday afternoon…" Even though he couldn't see him, Harry knew that his best friend was shaking his head in wonder at it all. "Harry, I hope you realise what a lucky git you are, you runt."

Hermione, who had been the reason for the doorbell, wandered into the kitchen just then in search of coffee. She looked over at Harry inquisitively, as though wondering why he was there, even though he lived there. "Yes," Harry answered into the phone, "I'm a very lucky git, as you put it. The most beautiful one of them all just walked into the room. I think I should go over there and give her a kiss."

Hermione, realising who Harry was talking to just by his tone, grinned at this.

"That had better not be my sister you're talking about kissing—she's vulnerable, you bloody—" Ron started to growl.

"Of course it's not your sister. It's your wife."

Before Ron could properly react to Harry's gibing, Hermione stole the phone from him and pushed at his shoulder, shooing him from the kitchen. Harry saluted her with his coffee mug, dropped a kiss on her cheek as he left the room, and retreated into the safety of his own room to collect his shoes. He threw a light jacket on over his new grey Typhoon T-shirt and paused at the doorway to the living room. "Gi—Amy, I'm headed to Tony's for a drink and to see if any of my dragons won at the races last night. Stay here until I get back?"

She didn't look up from her book. "Tara's here. I'll be fine."

"Er—all right then." He started to head towards the door, but a hand caught his arm before he could get far. He turned to see Hermione adjusting her spring jacket, ready to go already. "You're coming with me?"

Her smile was apologetic. "If it's not too much trouble. I need to ask Tony about a couple of things." Having been her friend for more than half of his life, Harry caught the underlying message: she needed to talk to him about Ginny. He had been wondering when that was coming, but figured it was fair. After all, his intentions towards Ginny had been see-sawing wildly lately.

They left the flat together and headed down the rickety stairs that led to the street. "So…" Harry began. "What's got Ron so grouchy lately? Is it just this situation with Ginny? He's been rather…bear-like whenever I've talked to him."

"Just some cross-jurisdiction issues. With Ginny here, the Australian branch of the Tunnel feels the need to nose in on every detail of the operations, and Ron's really feeling the strain." Hermione shrugged. "You'd think that they'd give us a little more leeway, since we started the original Tunnel."

"Who's leading the Tunnel Down Under, then?" Harry asked, blinking into the sunlight. There wasn't a cloud to be seen for miles, which was considerably odd—England had been enjoying a very wet early spring that year. "Is MacDuff still in charge?" Wilson MacDuff had been a year ahead of them in Hogwarts, and a Prefect friend of Hermione's. He was an original member of the Tunnel, having been a late addition to the DA. Most of the DA members had gone on to be high-acting operatives in various branches of the Tunnel. Harry knew for a fact that Lavender Brown, surprisingly enough, was running the operation out of Prague.

"No—Will transferred to start a South American branch, although it's been nearly a month since he's been in contact with any of the other headquarters." Nobody knew the full roster, but Hermione knew all of the Directors on a personal basis. Harry normally didn't work any sort of field work, existing mostly as a backer should the Tunnel need it. However, in the past couple of years, the Tunnel hadn't needed much gold from him. "They've got a fellow named Roger Heston in charge now. He's a bit older and a bit more liberal than Ron likes, but I dropped in last week on my way home from an assignment, and they've got a good crew down there. Efficient. A touch impersonal, but there are worse things to be."

They turned into an alley that Ron and Harry had chosen years before as an Apparation point—it had an alcove to the back of it, and the entrance to the alley itself wasn't actually visible from the street. Sure, the filth covering the place reeked of something awful, but it was better than Disapparating in plain site. "So, is Ginny still signed on as an agent down there?"

"Her contract was finalised last week—she's officially freelance." At this, Harry started; a freelance agent was one step from leaving the Tunnel. He hadn't known Ginny had been looking for a way out. From all that he had observed, she loved doing work for the Tunnel. "Don't look so shocked, Harry. Ginny has given this organisation five years of her life. Sooner or later, a woman wants to settle down and work her dream job."

No wonder her answer about whether or not she was going to be in town for a while at the benefit party was so vague, Harry thought to himself. She didn't know herself. Freelancers could be called to any branch of the Tunnel whenever they wanted to be. "So she wants to be an Organiser full time, then?"

"I imagine the position she's got with the Nottingham Typhoon is just something that she had been hoping for long before the opportunity to make it Tunnel work came along." Hermione shrugged and folded her arms. Out in the sun, it was warm, but the alley was shadowed and quite a few degrees cooler. "She's always loved Quidditch, and setting things up just right. Isn't it the obvious solution?"

The thought hadn't even occurred to Harry.

She didn't catch the look of bewilderment on Harry's face. "C'mon," she said, gesturing at the alcove. "Let's go talk to Tony."

Tony's normal crowd of layabouts and gamblers was waiting for them inside the small pub when the two arrived, blinking at the abrupt change of lighting. Quite a few men leered at Hermione, but both of them, well-used to this treatment from Tony's customers, just ignored them. Jack emerged from behind the counter and grinned nastily. His T-shirt had more stains on it than usual, and he had entirely abandoned the notion of an apron. Harry idly wondered if he and Snape ever traded hair-care tips. "A different girl this time, Potter? Don't tell me saint-boy's cheating on his girlfriend."

"Jack, you know perfectly well who I am, and you know who my boyfriend is," Hermione replied in a tone reminiscent of Professor McGonagall, rolling her eyes at the small man. "Just go fetch your boss. I have no desire to play this game with you."

Harry had never seen the man, who had been a stumbling block to him so many times in the past, move so quickly to do anybody's bidding, even Tony's. A few seconds later, Tony trundled in and beamed at Hermione, completely ignoring Harry. The two had forged a special relationship upon their first meeting, mostly to drive Ron mad. It had worked, for now Tony flirted easily with Hermione and Ron constantly grumbled about how the German bar-owner was trying to steal his woman. "Why, Miss Granger! What a lovely surprise. If you'd have let me you know you were coming, I would have tried to clean up the place."

Hermione smiled and waved him off. "And make all of the germs that have made this place a playground cry? I think not. Hey, Tony."

"Hermione." Tony looked around and pretended to see Harry for the first time. "Oh, you brought the runt with you." Seeing Harry's look, however, he sobered up with the line of questions. The Seeker was stone-faced despite the lightness of Tony and Hermione's banter. "What's up, Harry?"

He glanced over his shoulder at the crowd, who were trying their hardest to pretend they weren't listening to every word the trio said. "Do you have a minute?" His nod was pointed at a black door in the back of the small pub, the room Tony used to conduct all of his private business and sometimes Tunnel meetings. It was probably the most secure room in all of Great Britain, even more secure than the Tunnel Headquarters. Tony sometimes let his closest friends crash in there—Harry remembered more than one occasion waking up in one of the chairs after a late night out with Ron or the twins.

"For England's top Seeker?" Tony asked, still trying to lighten the mood. "Certainly. Is this about the pretty redhead you were with the other day? If it is, I'll just say here and now that I liked her. She's got spunk."

"She's also got one of the most dangerous serial killers after her to finish a job he started a couple of years," Harry pointed out, his expression darkening once the three crossed the threshold into the other room. It was sparsely lit, a large, polished table being the dominant feature in the room. The chairs clustered about it were plush and cushioned—while the pub out front looked in as though it needed to be dumped into a vat of bleach water, Tony kept his back room pristine. He crossed to a sidebar and began pouring drinks for the three, nodding to show that he had heard Harry's statement.

Hermione's look told Harry that the news was far from new to her. Knowing her, it hadn't taken long to wheedle the information out of Ron, as Harry had out of Bill. Or maybe Ginny had told her herself. Harry wasn't too certain.

"We _are_ talking about Dermot Raine here, correct?" Tony wanted to know as he sat down, sliding drinks across to the other two. "I've heard a couple of my sources mentioning him being in town. Witch Hunter and whatnot, his reputation precedes him."

"We had an agent tracking him, against Ron's better judgement," Hermione informed him. "She was one of his victims—to date the only one that has managed to escape. She had been working on the case for two years before he struck and is still to date the only specialist we have on the case. We didn't have much choice to assign her to the case. I'm sure you heard about the Shrieking Shack incident from last Friday?" 

"My sympathies, about that. How is Agent Darrow doing?"

Hermione tapped the tips of her fingernails across the table, contemplating the best answer. "It…was an eye-opening experience for him. He's taking a break from the Tunnel for the time being." She specifically left out how Harry and Ron had been dispatched to Scotty's apartment after the Suicide Alarm had been tripped. It had taken the help of Scotty's wife Linda to convince the man not to jump from the penthouse apartment he had earned on his wages as a broker, his daytime job. Scotty's attempt was classified information, even from Tony—who had a jaw tighter than anything Harry had ever seen.

"I am sorry to hear that—Darrow's the best field agent you've got." Tony tilted his glass to one side and then to the other, watching the ice cubes slide around in the liquid. Harry got the feeling that he actually knew more about the Scotty Darrow situation than he was letting on. But that was Tony for you, he thought. "Well, apart from the Weasley twins."

Hermione steepled her hands. "Yes. Hopefully he'll come back. If not, it's understandable."

"So," Harry interrupted, not really interested in the psychology of Scotty Darrow. "What have you heard about the Witch Hunter, Tony?"

"Oh, just the usual for any lowlife that comes into the country. He's dropped by once or twice to play poker, but now that you're in here, I doubt I'll see him again. Git bolted whenever he saw me coming, I swear. Don't know why." He spread tree-trunk thick arms and gave his best disarming smile, indicating his massive bulk. "I'm not that intimidating of a guy, am I?"

"He talk of any hits he might take?" Harry asked, narrowing his eyes keenly.

"Jack can tell you more about it than I can." Jack appeared at the door, summoned by an unseen signal on Tony's part. Neither Harry nor Hermione was particularly surprised to see him. He leered at the pair of them and sat down, ignoring Harry's steely glare. "Jack—Dermot Raine. Everything you know."

The blond man leaned backwards so that his chair only rested on two legs, watching both of the newcomers with slitted eyes. "Why you interested in the Witch Hunter, Potter? Plays a mean game of cards."

Harry swore at him. "Jack, you willingly played cards with a serial killer?"

"Hey—willingness had nothing to do with it. He had heavy pockets. I got wife and kids at home. Do the math." Jack caught Tony's look and shut his mouth so abruptly that Harry nearly stared. "All right, so I was trying to bleed the guy for information. I do that with characters that come in here, y'know? Besides, I didn't know he was the Witch Hunter until he told me so in our third game of cards. You wouldn't know it from looking at him."

"I'm sure he's perfectly charming," Hermione said quickly to smooth ruffled feathers. "Did he tell you anything about Ginny Weasley? We believe he might be stalking her."

Jack scratched his head and leaned back. Harry wasn't sure if he as actually thinking or if he was stalling on purpose to annoy the pair of them. Either way, it was working. "He left the country, Potter. This morning on the eight o'clock portkey. He ain't stalking nobody. Said he was here to get together with an ex-girlfriend. I think she turned him down, so he went back to Boston."

"We'll have to alert the authorities over there, as well as McNeil." Randall McNeil had been in charge of the American Tunnel since its inception. Harry turned away from Hermione to narrow his eyes at Jack. "Is that all you can tell us, Jack?"

Instead of answering, the man disappeared with a _pop!_

"Prat," Tony swore under his breath, standing and heading for the door. He turned before he reached it and nodded finally to them. "Look, you two, I'll drag it all from Jack and owl you what I know."

"Thanks, Tony. We appreciate it."

And with that, Tony left them, presumably to beat his second-in-charge over the head with salami.

*

Angelina Johnson sat at the small table of the Hutch, watching the form of her future sister-in-law as it whizzed back and forth at dizzying speeds, puttering here and there to collect ingredients for the four-course meal she was "whipping up." Personally, she had always liked the shorter, thinner Ginny Weasley—the girl was a solid bet on the Quidditch pitch, with a spicy sense of humour similar to her own fiancé's, and more compassion than she had ever seen in one being. Angelina had been thrilled that she had dedicated most of the day to helping her out with the wedding—with Ginny as a wedding planner, she was almost positive that nothing could go wrong.

"Slow down there, Skip," she told her friend now. "You're going to leave skid marks in Harry's kitchen floor if you keep going this fast."

Ginny, reaching for the spice cupboard, turned to look at her as though she had forgotten she was there. "Oh!"

"_That_ right there makes me feel loved, Miss Weasley." Angelina smiled to take the sting out of her words, and Ginny reddened sheepishly. "What's got that bee in your bonnet buzzing, then?" The lean Chaser stood to cross to the pot simmering on the stove. "Home-made sauce? I thought you said you were over Harry."

This earned her a snort. Unlike Ron, Ginny was quite adept at hiding her emotions, so Angelina didn't even see a hint of a blush or anything that might give her away. "Mum taught me to have too much pride in my cooking to use store-bought sauce, that's all. Try a bit—you'll see why."

The sauce, Angelina had to agree, was one step from heaven; it was the perfect texture, and had a tang that most spaghetti sauces lacked. "Mm—is this a family recipe? If so, forget the wedding. I'll just elope tonight!"

"Not so much a family recipe as a result of my boredom at sixteen. I'll owl you the recipe when I get around to writing it down," Ginny told her, not looking up from the cookbook she was browsing. She sighed and pushed herself away from the counter, shoved both hands through her already dishevelled hair. "The sauce turned out nicely, but I wish I had that much luck with desserts. I'm afraid I'm rather hopeless."

Angelina just watched her lift lids and check the various dishes she was concocting, a smirk sitting smugly on her face. "Girl, you've got it bad. Cooking for a friend is one thing, but a four-star feast is another."

Ginny did not even look daunted as she flickered her glance towards Angelina. "Please. This is at the very least five stars."

This thrilled the tall woman far more than anything else Ginny could have said. Harry needed a girl, and not an air head. Plus, Ginny was almost family, and a former member of her Quidditch team. Angelina couldn't think of two people that were more suited for each other. They had both become such well-rounded people since Hogwarts that Angelina sometimes didn't recognise the two skinny Seekers she'd had in her seventh year. Now they were both one step from being complete, she knew. "So you're not denying it, then?"

"If I deny it, you're just going to get that knowing grin—kind of like the one you've got on now—and just start teasing me." Ginny shrugged one shoulder, effectively downplaying the news that she was delivering. "Why bother? You'll see right through anything I say—so here it goes: yes, I like the git enough to cook for him, although right now he's a buggering idiot if he thinks he's going to boss me around."

"True love," Angelina sighed, collecting a bottle of Butterbeer from the icebox. "When did you figure out? At Madame Barnaby's party?"

"Figure out?" Ginny actually stopped with her perpetual movement to contemplate this. "No, it wasn't then, but I was shocked. When I left, Harry was sulky, pale, and skinny. You remember what he was like at Hogwarts. And then I came back, and there's this man in a tux that answers to Harry, and knows everything Harry knows, and walks and talks like Harry—but he's nothing like Harry."

Angelina studied her, trying to gauge any type of emotion from that story. Ginny was an honest person, she knew, but when it came to emotions, she knew that the redhead wasn't exactly big on sharing. In fact, since she had returned to England, there had been a guarded, reserved air around her that Angelina didn't remember from Hogwarts. It was like something had scarred Ginny in those five years away, and she was still licking her wounds and trying not to showcase them. "When you left, he was still in Auror training, wasn't he?"

"I left the week before he dropped out of the program. I knew he wasn't happy, but there wasn't anything I could. I mean, it wasn't like he really ever paid much attention to me, even if I _did _help him defeat Voldemort." Ginny said the name unflinchingly, her tone betraying none of the hatred she harvested for the murderer that had terrorised their lives for years. She tilted her head at Angelina, her dark eyes inquisitive. "You seem like you had a pretty good vantage point over the years. What changed?"

"A guy hits rock bottom—only thing to do is bounce. And trust me, love, Harry _bounced_. Fred found him passed out in an alley one day, and the next day he woke up and went and tried out for the Chudley Cannons, even though he hadn't been on a proper Quidditch team since his third year. Made it, hands down, led the team to victory. Suddenly, he's on the cover of all of these famous magazines and everybody is wanting a minute of his time. I think he finally let some of it go to his head because he showed up on Hermione's doorstep and asked her and the twins to polish him up. So far, the sheen has stuck. Dazzling, isn't he?"

"Dazzling, charming…" Ginny shook her head in amazement. "If you told me that he would be like that when I came back, I would have laughed at you."

"And now you're head over heels in love with the guy." 

Ginny's look turned perverse as she lifted a colander from the sink and dumped its contents into a serving bowl. "You tell anybody, and I tell my darling older brother that you've been having fantasies about him _and _his twin."

She was too elated by this news to care much that her wedding planner was blackmailing her. Still, she had to play along. "Ouch. Never let it be said that Ginny Weasley doesn't fight dirty."

A magical timer beeped and Ginny pulled oven mitts over her hands and pulled a pie from the over, inspecting it critically. "Of course I fight dirty—you can't expect to win against six older brothers if you're an angel, you know. Don't worry, though. With me as your guide, you'll know every dirty trick in the book."

"Is that a promise? That would be amusing to watch."

Harry had come home, it appeared, and let himself in through the front door without so much as a noise to let either of the two know he was coming. Angelina eyed him, guiltily wondering how long he had been standing in the kitchen doorway. Ginny, however, was completely nonchalant as she straightened and looked over at him. "Hope you don't mind spaghetti." Angelina decided that she needed to learn exactly how Ginny remained calm like that, even given the possibility that he had overheard her confession. "Hi, by the way. Where've you been?"

He crossed to the kitchen table, began rifling through the stacks of letters that had arrived in his absence. Angelina saw logos from several different Quidditch teams and broom-making companies, but he tossed most of these in the trash. "Tony wanted a second opinion on a broomstick he's thinking of purchasing. 'Lo, Angelina. Here to plan the wedding?"

"She was baby-sitting me until you got back," Ginny told him facetiously.

"I hope she didn't have to change your nappy," Harry deadpanned in reply.

Angelina, meanwhile, was watching the interaction between the two, wondering if it was as obvious to them as it was to her: They were both fluid, graceful people, almost a step above humanity. In fact, the two seemed to shine with an ethereal glow—especially when they looked at each other. It was the stuff out of romance novels, sappily applied to life right in front of her. This was a couple that would be flirting and teasing each other for the rest of their lives.

"And you cooked her dinner?" Harry tried to sniff at the pot, but Ginny shooed him away. He grinned over at Angelina, unabashed. "That was awfully nice of you, Gin—"

The phone nearly jangled off of its hook and Angelina, being the closest to it, reached over and plucked it up. "The Hutch," she answered simply, for anybody who had the number would know the name of the house.

"Angelina? Oh, good. Just the person I was hoping for."

Angelina grinned. "Hi, George."

On the other end of the line, George paused. When he did start speaking, his tone was almost rueful. "You know, it's very unnerving how you can tell us apart, even though our Mum can't even tell the difference between our voices."

"Fred calls me Angie."

"Oh. Either way, I'm supposed to call and beg you to come over, since Fred's kind of, er, stuck up on a project we're walking on. Personally, I think the prat's just wanting a little sympathy, mainly cos I was laughing at him. But, still. You have to see this." In his typical fashion, George hung up the phone without saying good-bye, leaving Angelina staring at the receiver in her hand.

Harry looked up from the magazine he was browsing. "Anything wrong?"

"No…Fred's just managed to get himself 'stuck' on another project and George wants me to come over and laugh at him." Angelina shrugged and began pulling on her tan slides. The Weasleys were all tall, but her close-to-supermodel height meant that she couldn't wear high heels on any day that she would see Fred. Although Fred seemed to think it was funnier that he was only an inch taller than his girlfriend, Angelina wasn't amused. "So I'll see you two on Sunday?"

"Sunday?" Harry asked, still perusing the magazine.

Ginny frowned as she tasted the sauce again. "Family dinner, remember?"

"Oh. Right." Harry pushed a hand along the back of his head, forcing his hair to stand up in soft spikes as he grinned sheepishly at Angelina. "Glad I'm not the only outsider now, actually."

Angelina gave him a patronising look.. "Harry, I've been coming to family dinners for years now. Might want to catch up with the times." She gave him a hug and kissed his cheek on the way out. "Ginny—I'll give you a call tomorrow once I show those invitations to Fred—assuming that I can get him un-stuck from whatever mess he's in now." The two women hugged and then Angelina hurried into the living room and waved her wand at the fireplace, igniting the flame that would send her to save her fiancé from whatever mess he had buried himself in now.

*

The general sounds of splashing from the kitchen told Ginny that Harry was still finishing the after dinner dishes—his own choice. "You cooked," he'd told her, pointing towards the living room when she moved to start on the dishes. "I'll clean up. Besides, I know where everything is better than you do."

"That's because you live here. And you cooked this morning, and cleaned up."

"Either way, I'll do the dishes. Go grab those files out of my room and pour yourself something to drink. Get comfortable." Despite the serious tone in his voice, his shove towards the door was playful. "It won't take more than five minutes."

Some time later (longer than five minutes, she was sure), she was perched on the edge of one of the comfortable chairs, a glass of sherry sitting untouched on the coffee table in front of her. She had found the sherry and glass in a little decanter hidden inside the Quaffle sitting on the coffee table, just another artistic touch that she wouldn't have thought Harry capable of. His apartment was very masculine, which was ideal for its one and a half occupants, but Ginny was of the opinion that it needed a woman's touch to smooth out all of the masculinity. She could see that Hermione had attempted to do a couple of things to the place, but her efforts were muted against Harry's tastes.

The carpet was plush and cream, complementing the earth tones nicely. The couches and chairs were done in green, with all of the wooden surfaces in the room polished with a dark finish. However, the large windows and cheerfully blazing fireplace effectively displaced any darkness that the décor might force upon the place. And Hermione had definitely done the curtains, Ginny decided as she looked at the floating cream material that was a few shades darker than the carpet. Leaving her glass on the coffee table, she crossed to the fireplace and examined the photos on the mantle.

Seated in the place of honour was a group-shot of the trio, arms wrapped around each other's shoulders. Hermione was sandwiched between the two boys, her head thrown back so that her hair tumbled every which way. The three were grinning widely, obviously having just shared a joke before the snapshot was taken. They looked to be about eighteen or nineteen, and dressed in Muggle clothing. The picture to its left had them in formal robes, at some Ministry ball or other. Occasionally, Harry would reach up to fidget with his glasses, but that was all that remained of the awkward youth he had been. Ron and Hermione would occasionally break from their poses to dance, and it delighted Ginny to see that her brother's ears were red.

"I try not to keep too many pictures of them up in the house. Sometimes the show just isn't worth it," said a voice behind her. Harry had finished in the kitchen and was wiping his hands on a dish towel, looking somewhat wistfully at the photographs over Ginny's shoulder. He frowned at something. "We don't have any of you on there, though. We'll have to fix that."

"Oh?"

"Yes, of course. We've got the rest of the Weasleys on there." Turning, Ginny saw that that was true: there was a small photograph of Fred, George, and Angelina standing together, a formal picture of Bill and Fleur and their firstborn, and a group picture of all of her brothers playing as many pranks on each other as they could fit into a photograph frame. It looked as though Charlie had Bill in a headlock, and the twins were trying to set Percy's fez on fire, with Ron grinning at them from a few feet away. "Spot of honour, right next to the Ron and Hermione picture. I'll have to dredge up my old camera."

He poured himself a glass of sherry and took a seat in one of the green wing-back chairs, propping his feet up on a stool. It had been a long day for him—drawing information out of Jack was always a beastly task. Even with Quidditch practice cancelled, he hadn't had much sleep. And it didn't look like he was going to get much tonight, either. "So. Sit. Get comfortable."

"Don't have much of a choice." Still, Ginny obeyed, forcing herself to appear relaxed as she took a seat and crossed her legs, leaning back. "You do realise that the information I give you tonight must remain classified. An ever-expanding circle knows now—you, Tara, Ron, Bill, Hermione, and probably that Tony guy you visited today. I want this to remain within that circle."

"All right," Harry said gravely.

Ginny pushed her hair back and closed her eyes. "Where should I start? I guess the beginning is as good a place as any." She had always been told her memory was like a steel trap, so it didn't surprise her that she could remember the day clearly—walking into the American Tunnel Headquarters, the smell of fresh-cut grass lingering from the lawn, the scent of coffee heavy on the air, the dark greys and midnight blues of the actual office, the sharp, impressive lines of her new boss…the nervousness that made her belly wriggle like a fish out of water. "The Witch Hunter was my first case in America. I'd transferred from Prague just to tackle the case because I heard it was open, and I wanted to try my hand at investigative crime work instead of field work.

"My first day on the job, they dumped about twenty files on me and said, 'Get to know these like the back of your hand.' I ended up doing so, but it was still a bit discouraging until they gave me a partner to work with. Dermot Raine." She opened her eyes, looked over at Harry. To her surprise, he wasn't looking at her, but at the sherry in the glass. "You have to admit, he's a handsome man—and _very_ charming. Serial killers usually are. That's how they lure their victims in. Still, he was a member of the American Tunnel. It didn't occur to me to associate his charming demeanour with the Witch Hunter profile." She shrugged. "Doing that would have been taking a serious shot in the dark."

"So when did you first clue in?"

"I'm getting to that part." Suddenly, she needed that sherry. She took a large gulp, felt the reassuring burn. "Dermot and I made a good team. Both of us were exceptionally good at field work—him because he had military experience, and me because I had a really hard head."

"I noticed," Harry input dryly.

Ginny's ghost of a smile was wry. "I was good at my job, really good. I nearly had the Witch Hunter bagged on several different occasions. But each time, he managed to elude me—and I never managed to save the victims. I kept getting closer to discovering his actual identity the whole time, and by that time, I was dating Dermot. Well, not dating so much as living together, really. Mum would die at hearing that one of her children was living in sin, especially with a man nine years older than her, but the situation just worked out. I think I might have even loved him." She took the time to curl her legs under her and hunch forward, unconsciously presenting a smaller target to any opponents. "Of course, that all changed on the night in May when he drugged me."

The only sign of tension in Harry's figure was the tightening of fingers around the sherry glass. "He drugged you? How stupid of him."

Only a select few people knew what had happened in the final battle, in the room where six Hogwarts students had been trapped with the darkest lord of all time, and several of his top minions. Even the six that were present still had sketchy memories of the event. However, one of Ginny's clearer memories was being hit with the Blood Curse, a rather obscure Dark Arts hex that involved one's blood causing pain everywhere it touched. Potions could do nothing to alleviate the pain, and the only cure was a _very_ little-known counter-curse. Ginny's body had nearly exploded in the agonising seconds it had taken Hermione to remember the counter-curse. Those few seconds had cost her greatly: to this day, very few potions held effect unless she was given mass amounts of it.

"Probably the only thing that saved my life," Ginny reflected.

"So he drugged you and you…what…woke up to find him standing over you with," and here Harry actually reached for a file, flicked through it, and ran his finger down a page, "a tie, about to strangle you?"

"You clearly underestimate me."

"Oh?"

"Yes—I woke up before he even found his tie on the floor." At this, Harry grimaced, having had a completely different picture in his head. "But I was out long enough for him to set up the scene. You know, the spilled wine on the bedspread, and the 'Witch Hunter' sign across the closet door. You know, for a minute, it didn't even make sense. I just remember sitting there in bed and wondering if I fell asleep on the job. When I realised what was happening, I was just so shocked that I didn't know what to do. He hadn't even turned around by the time I figured out, 'hey, girl, Apparate!'"

She told him all about running around the American Government of Magic with nothing but a towel on, and he winced appropriately. When he asked about what had happened after, she shrugged. "They didn't believe me at first, but they dispatched some agents to the apartment…he was gone by then. In fact, I didn't see hide nor hair of him for two years. Tara Staples and I transferred together out to Australia to avoid him, spent two great years down there. We thought he'd been picked up by the Muggle police—until he showed up in our night club one night."

She stared off into space for a moment, and Harry let her. "He could have killed both of us on the spot without so much as a by-your-leave." She shook her head. "But he didn't. The prat wanted to be _friends_, as if it was perfectly acceptable that his night job was charming and murdering women! He got away before Tara and I could Stun him, and showed up a few nights later. The Australian Tunnel wasn't very helpful in purging him out and bagging him, so I thought…maybe if I came here, you know? We have the most organised and possibly the scariest Tunnel. With all of my brothers, I'd figured we would bag him in no time."

"Ron and Bill were all for it until the other night," Harry observed. "They kept your case top-secret, though. I had to threaten bodily harm before they would even let me in on the sketchy details. And then they didn't even tell me the half of it."

"That was at my request. I wanted as few people involved as possible." Ginny sighed gustily. "As far as I can tell, he's taken his aim somewhere else. If he truly wanted me dead right now, I wouldn't be here."

"Then how do you explain the Shrieking Shack?"

"He tries once, he fails, and then he goes away from months to years at a time. Usually sends me cryptic notes, like the one you found in the hallway, to make sure that I know he's still out there." Ginny waved her wand at the coffee table to move all of the debris to the side, and conjured a map. "He's originally from the Alabama area, so he attacks there, mostly. He's hit a couple in Portland, but they're all pretty much in the south." She indicated a spot on the far left corner of the United States as she spoke.

"Then why the Irish accent?" Harry wanted to know.

Ginny's shrug was oddly hollow. "Game of intrigue, I guess? He's a complex man, Harry. He likes to have his fun, but it's…it's kind of creepy." She rubbed her the back of her neck and winced suddenly. The pain potion was wearing off, and her side was once again beginning to ache. _I really need to start taking it easier_, she thought to herself as Harry excused himself from the room and returned with the normal goblet. "I really hate this stuff."

"Next time try to miss any boards that happen to be sticking out of the floor, then," Harry advised, watching her quaff the potion. He waited until she was almost done with the potion to deliver his important news: "I put aardvark bogies in that one especially for you."

She gagged on the potion. "You didn't!"

"Didn't I?" His eyes sparkled with amusement. "It would serve you right for even coming up with such an odd concept." Smiling to himself as she forced the last bit of potion down, he took the goblet from her and retreated back to the kitchen for a minute. "What you're saying matches up with Jack's news, then. He claimed Raine had left the country on the eight o'clock portkey this morning."

"Better notify the officials to wherever he went," Ginny warned.

"Already done. So what can we do now?"

She bit her lip. Ron and Bill hadn't liked this part of the plan, especially after the Shrieking Shack incident, but it was necessary. "We try to draw him out, I guess. But we can't do it here. He's proved that he can work my turf just as well as his own. We have to strike him on his own home-ground."

To her surprise, he didn't protest. His green eyes grew clearer for a minute as he rested his chin on one hand, staring into the flames. "How will we be able to do that, though? We've got the Typhoon and Ulysses Davenport to worry about here."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Harry, have you forgot that I'm the team planner? I hear that there's a Quidditch Open going on in America….what better way to become a popular team than to go and beat all of the American teams?"

*

"An American Quidditch Open?" Bear Winslow demanded the next day at practice as he and Harry ran laps around the pitch. Although Harry was nearly half a foot shorter than the lanky Keeper, he had always been a fast runner, and so had no problems keeping up with Bear's long legs. "You mean, we're going to play against a bunch of yanks?"

"That's what Amy said," Harry told him. "I couldn't believe it at first, either, but it's a couple of months after the big scrimmage. We're all headed off to sunny Florida for a two-week long tournament. She's already secured us a spot and everything."

"Oi! Tad! Frank!" Bear shouted at the Beaters, who were trundling along with their slow, patient jogs behind them. He and Harry jogged in place until the other two men caught up. "Have you heard? We're going to be playing against a bunch of yanks!"

Tad gave them his everlasting grin. "In the American Quidditch Open? Yeah, we heard. Pretty Miss Mason told us this morning when we were having coffee with her after practice."

Harry and Ginny had haggled down the terms of his bodyguard duties—as long as Ginny was with one of the team, she was allowed to be out of his sight. She'd practically jumped at the opportunity, much to Harry's dismay, and had spent most of the morning flirting with Tad and Frank. He could understand the need to get away from him, so he wasn't _too_ upset or anything. Besides, Tad and Frank were both married, either way.

_Why does that reassure me so much? _He wondered at himself. A snider part of his mind felt the need to chip in, _Because you want to jump her bones, you git._

Well, he never said his mind was exactly the most refined thing on the planet. The problem with being Ginny's protector of sorts (even though they figured that the threat was mostly gone for now) was that he was now spending so much time around Ginny and seeing the person he remembered from Hogwarts…but a smoother, sleeker, sexier version of it. Sure, she was on the end of her emotional rope, but he could still see the fire beneath that tired exterior. It came out in her sense of humour and the way she would just…_look_ at him.

_You're smitten_, his mind berated.

"Playing Quidditch in the states…who would have thought?" Bear laughed as they finished their final lap and headed over to the water cooler, each taking a cup from the bench. "Well, if they hate us here in good old mother England, we could always immigrate and beat the yanks in their own league."

"As much faith as I have in the lot of you, I doubt that," said a new voice, as Ginny herself joined the group. Harry barely avoided squirming guiltily at the thoughts that had just been flowing through his mind. "Those American teams are pretty hard-core. They don't have as many fouls over there. Usually the Seeker just acts as a fourth Chaser."

"Hear that, Harry?" Frank chortled, rubbing a hand over his afro. "You'll have to start training with the birds more." Stacy, Tracy, and Melinda had earned the nickname after a very long and delirious team practice, and actually didn't seem to mind the appellation very much.

"Save it for after the big game next week," Ginny warned, turning her thousand-watt smile on Harry. He hid the fact that his stomach flipped over by taking a long drink. She looked so odd with her hair so dark, but Harry still found that wildly attractive. He liked the freckles more than the tanned skin, but he was hardly going to tell her that. "That's still considered a foul here, and I'd hate for them to slip and fall into a pattern of passing it to Harry."

"Oi! All of you! Into the air now! This is a practice, not a social hour!" Dave Davenport flew by, his expression cranky with the lot of them. Bear and Harry rolled their eyes, but moved over to where their brooms were propped up against a chain-link fence. The birds, or Chasers, were already in the air, awaiting the rest of the team. Practice usually started out with Harry and Bear assisting them with passing drills, usually just providing bodies for them to avoid hitting.

Bear kept pace with Harry, rolling his shoulders as they flew. "I reckon she likes you, Potter," he observed, craning his neck to watch Ginny head into the stands to mingle with the crowd and get some excitement going over the team. The majority of the crowds would arrive in a couple of hours, which would mean that they would start practising the daredevil stunts for which the Nottingham Typhoon was rapidly becoming well-known. "You sure you're only flatmates?"

"Positive," Harry muttered. "I can give you every assurance that she doesn't even think of me that way."

"Oh, she definitely likes him," Tracy Harrows claimed, flying up to the pair. She pushed blond hair out of her eyes and grinned at Harry. "It's kind of obvious—how she looks at him, and all."

"Can we _not _discuss my love life?" Harry wanted to know.

Stacy and Melinda flew over, obviously curious as to what could have Harry groaning so early in the practice. The three Chasers were always amused by the fact that Harry was single, and had offered to set him up with some of their Quidditch-playing friends. Meddling in each others' lives was what the three were good at, they'd told the men on the team. This was only bad for Bear and Harry, who were the unattached men on the team. Frank and Tad both had wives—both of whom were sitting in the audience at that very moment. "Harry and Amy?" Stacy asked her twin. She studied Harry for a minute, and he felt very much like a piece of meat hanging on a rack. "They'd be cute together. And she definitely likes him."

Why on earth did this whole topic make him feel fourteen again? "Even if she does, it doesn't change much."

"Oh, c'mon, don't be such a spoilsport." The other four stared as Melinda, who'd never spoken a word in Harry's presence before then, spoke up. She had an African accent and an easy grin, her white teeth shining out from her brown face. "Let's make this interesting. I'm willing to do a little betting. What about you guys?"

Before Harry could do so much as protest, even Tad and Frank had joined in, claiming that they were both willing to bet on this wager. "If we win the Dublin Demented game, _you_ have to kiss Amy on your victory lap," Bear finally decided.

Harry raised an eyebrow. In other situations, he might have protested, but that would only dig him farther into this hole. "And if we lose?"

"Work on your Frank Sinatra impression, because you're singing 'Strangers in the Night' to her in front of the whole audience."

"Won't Seamus love that?" Harry grumbled to nobody in particular, and flew off before Dave Davenport could break up their gaggle once again. Up in the stands, Ginny had no idea that any conspiracy was going on, about her or not. She didn't even look up as he flew by.


	5. Opal Typhoon

A/N: This chapter is dedicated to Leslie, who helped me figure out if the Typhoon should win or lose. You'll have to read on to find out.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters that you recognise or "Strangers in the Night." Peace.

****

Chapter Five: Opal Typhoon

With the confusion about Dermot taking the priority lately, Harry was the first to admit they'd neglected the research into Ulysses Davenport's motives. "It could be entirely innocent," Ginny said that night over takeout. "I mean, the guy's always liked Quidditch. Maybe he just wanted to start up a new team. It _has _been the Quidditch Thirteen forever."

But Harry shook his head. "Why work with Draco Malfoy, then? I think Draco's finally taking his father's choices to heart. The Typhoon is funding _something_." He uncorked a bottle of Madam Pasty's Pumpkin juice and poured two glasses while he thought about it. "I bet you anything that Sam Werner's in on it, too."

"Sam Werner?" Ginny tilted her head to the side, trying to place the name. Coming up with nothing, she shook her head. "Who's that?"

"He was involved in that big scandal with Davenport, Malfoy, and Teddy Gingham."

"Ah, yes. The corrupt Quidditch King. Yet, he still reigns."

They made a cosy picture in the kitchen at the Hutch. Ginny sat on the counter and Harry leaned back against the table, neither quite interested in the conventional settings around the table. They were both holding Chinese food cartons, ordered from a small place not too far from the Hutch. Both of them were dressed like Muggles, for modern witches and wizards only wore the voluminous robes in public. "Maybe we should have somebody watch Sam Werner now, too?" Harry asked, handing her one of the glasses.

"I hear the twins are pretty bored lately. Well, when they're not planning pranks for Ron and Hermione's wedding." Now that they had set the date for their friends, Fred and George had dived fully into the project. Harry had already received two owls from them, detailing hypothetical situations. "Say," one had asked, "if we released a giant hippo at the wedding reception, would the Muggles immediately suspect us to be wizards? Or could we just write it off as coming from a zoo nearby the Burrow?"

"Ah, yes. Let's make George do it."

"Make George follow a suspected Death Eater that's four times older than my grandfather?" Ginny asked, a gleam in her eyes as she contemplated this. "Sounds like fun."

Harry wanted to ask what George had done to her lately to deserve such a malicious punishment, but decided against it. What with all of the pranks George could have pulled, he was slightly afraid of the answer, to be truthful. "Ron probably has surveillance on Malfoy already. Never trusted the little bugger, even though we knew he was innocent when Voldemort fell."

"Sure, he's evil, but he was always the type to just go along with stuff. He never was very creative. Always hid behind his father." Ginny stood to shuffle through the paperwork she had brought home with her. "I owled Bill and got him to pull the Davenports' bank statements for me. Highly illegal, but take a look." She handed over a couple of parchments stamped with the Gringotts letterhead and seal of approval. He whistled at the sum on the very bottom line. "See? Not nearly enough to afford his own professional Quidditch team, especially in a league with teams like the Magpies and the Harpies."

Harry was still scanning the bank reports. "So Malfoy's backing him, you think?"

"I'm not sure. The family lost a lot of money after Hogwarts. Could he afford backing a whole Quidditch team? Probably not." Ginny scribbled a note to herself on the notepad next to her paperwork. "I did some research and crunched a whole bunch of numbers, figured out how much everything for the Typhoon costs. It's no small sum, trust me. I don't think the Davenports and Malfoy could afford it combined."

"Maybe they could have other accounts?"

"Possible. Not likely. Bill's good at his job. He's kept an eye on several ex-Death Eater accounts since the war." Ginny resumed her seat on the counter and pulled her legs under her in a complicated fashion. "I'll have him pull accounts on Sam Werner and Teddy Gingham, if he hasn't already. It's entirely possible that the Typhoon is either a cover to pull attention away from an evil scheme or something to hide the profits in. Or worse, both."

Harry continued looking at the bank statements. "They record the destinations for the bigger transactions, don't they?" He tried to remember what his own bank statements looked like, but he'd never particularly bothered much with money. He had enough to get by—which was all that mattered to him. Ginny had underlined a few things on the report, it seemed. "Like, more than fifty Galleons or so to this place or that?"

"On the back."

He turned it over and looked down the list. "Have you tried comparing the two? See if they made any transactions to the same place? Maybe a middle-man?"

"Well, a couple of names stood out at me—" 

Ginny broke off as the doorbell rang. Before Harry could even grab his wand, the sound of a lock turning came. "Oi! Anybody home?" Ron's voice flooded the Hutch.

"In here, Ron!" Harry called back, relieved. A few seconds, both Ron and Hermione appeared in the kitchen doorway, dressed as Muggles. They were both, like Ginny and Harry, in jeans and sweaters. Hermione had pulled her bushy hair into something resembling a bun. They were both carrying rain slickers, for it was pouring heavily outside. Their shoes had been sacrificed to the front doormat, for they were both in socks. "Why didn't you call?"

Hermione smiled at their tensed poses and the boxes of Chinese food. "We were in the neighbourhood. We didn't think you'd mind. What are you two up to tonight?"

"The Typhoon case," Ginny answered her, taking the slickers back to one of the bedrooms. She had rapidly adjusted to living at the Hutch, although her things were still in the flat that she shared with Tara. In order to avoid any rent issues, Harry insisted that she keep paying for her part of the rent on that flat and just split the chores around the Hutch with him. "We've decided to put George on surveillance duty, watching Sam Werner."

"No can do. The twins are taking off on a business trip to Argentina tomorrow. Harry, they're wondering if you can watch the shop in the afternoons, since you only have morning practice next week."

"Sure—as long as they don't set up signs announcing it again." Harry rolled his eyes and pulled two more glasses out of the cabinet, pouring more pumpkin juice for his friends. "Get some agent tailing Werner sometime if the twins are going to Argentina. We haven't figured out if there's a direct connection yet, but if there, he's our best. You know, since he's not connected in any way to the Typhoon as a team."

They migrated into the sitting room, Hermione and Ginny taking the couch. Ron and Harry pulled seats over the coffee table, which served as sort of a base of operations over the next while. Ron reviewed Ginny's notes on what she had observed at the various practices and meetings she had attended in her capacity as Team Co-ordinator. Hermione, meanwhile, grilled Harry and Ginny for any details they could give her about interaction with the Davenports.

"It's a bit odd, the way Dave is to the team," Harry told Hermione, sipping the pumpkin juice. "It's like he doesn't want us to be friends. Whenever we're all standing around talking, even on break, he comes over and tries to split us up. And when he can't, he just sends us these little poisonous glares like we're the scum of the earth. We make more money than he does—and we're saving his rear from whatever shady business he's been into. What's he got to complain about?"

Hermione jotted something down on her notepad. "And what are the other team members like?"

Feeling very much like he should be lying down in a psychiatrist's office, Harry thought it over. "They're your average Quidditch stars. I mean, I guess we're all a bit stuck-up in our own ways. But I don't really have reason to think they're hiding anything more illegal than a closet addiction to Billywig stings. You know what they say. Quidditch players love to fly…with or without the broom." He leaned back and played with his fringe, watching Ginny out of the corner of his eye.

"I've been checking backgrounds," she told Hermione now. "Nothing…suspicious, to say the least. They really seemed to pick players that the audience enjoy watching. Teddy Gingham is completely in on this scheme if there is one, for there's no way they could bag Stacy and Tracy Harrows and Harry Potter on the same team. The twins are as big a sensation as he is."

"Think Ludo Bagman's in on this anywhere?" Harry wondered aloud, thinking of the portly ex-Wasps player that had cheated the twins at Hogwarts.

Ginny actually snorted. "With all of the cane Fred and George have been raising about him being anywhere near Quidditch? No, I think we've got our full list of suspects right here."

"I don't think we do," Hermione told her, frowning. "There's something funny about the Typhoon players. You two keep an eye on them, okay?"

*

It was easier said than done. With the Dublin Demented game fast approaching, any suspicious behaviour could be chalked up to nervousness over the big scrimmage. On top of that, Harry's exhaustion was growing with each day that the twins were away in Argentina. Word had leaked that _Harry Potter _was working behind the counter in Weasley's Wizard Wheezes and hordes gathered every day in hopes of pestering him and obtaining his autograph. After a few days of this, Ginny took pity on him and tried her hand at running the shop. This didn't end well (namely in boils and a migraine from the singing erasers that had taken a liking to her and followed her around the shop, singing 'Henry the Eighth' at the tops of their little rubber lungs). In the end, they made Ron do it

Some days, they devoted their all to the 'Witch Hunter' project, while they focused on the 'Typhoon' project on other days. Sometimes the two even overlapped—studying the layout of the Tropicana Quidditch Stadium, where they would be playing in the American Open, and where they would eventually trick Dermot. Bill obtained the bank paperwork they needed on everybody, including even Harry and his teammates. "I can't believe Stacy spends this much on robes!" It felt like they were wading through a sea of paperwork, especially for Ginny. She was busy with her full-time job of co-ordinating things for the Typhoon, planning Angelina's wedding, and working on Tunnel duties. Also, there was the ever-present fear that Dermot was going to change his MO and come after her. The stress began to show before long.

The night before the Dublin Demented game, Harry had had enough. They had just started working through that night's paperwork when he closed his eyes and put his head down on the table (the ink from a fresh bank statement smudged across his forehead, but he didn't notice). "C'mon," he told Ginny, who was scowling at her own tower of paperwork. "Let's get out of here."

"Can't. Too much work to do."

"For Quidditch's sake, we're not at Hogwarts, Gin. Put down the quill." He said it so cantankerously that Ginny actually dropped her quill. She crossed her arms and gave him a look, however. "Aw, don't be like that. We're both tired to the point of nearly killing something. We need to get out. I'd say we need to get away from each other, but that's not possible. Let's go to Tony's."

"Tony's?" Ginny repeated dubiously. "What, is it Black Jack Thursday?"

"No. It's Friday. That's usually on Monday." Harry headed back into his room to change out of his sweatpants and old England Quidditch T-shirt. When he returned, Ginny had changed into a pair of snug-fitting trousers and a tank top that showed off parts that Harry had never thought a simple shirt capable of showing off. He stared.

"What?" Ginny asked, turning to look at him with a puzzled look. "Is something wrong?"

"N-no," Harry said quickly, remembering how to use his voice. He considered asking her if such a shirt was appropriate to wear out in public—other guys could look at her and see the exact same things _he _was seeing, after all!—but remembered Ron and Hermione's argument over the very same subject just in time. Besides, she _might_ end up changing…and to be frank, he was enjoying the show. "No…It looks…You look great, Gin."

Her private grin told him that she knew exactly what sort of effect she held over him. He gulped. Women like Ginny Weasley were dangerous to simple guys like him. He slid his wand into his wrist holster while she gathered up her purse. They began to walk to the Apparation point. "Is there dancing at Tony's?"

"Yeah—it's popular with the University students in the area. He opens his doors to Muggles at night sometimes. It's quite the spot." They were silent until they reached the alley, where Harry politely took Ginny's purse and Apparated first to make sure that the area was clear. Ginny joined him a few seconds later and took her purse back. "I tend to avoid this place at night. I'm not exactly Mr. Social."

"I'm sure we can overlook that for one night," Ginny told him, patting him on the arm.

Tony was manning the door that night, double-checking ID's and letting people in at random. Even Harry hadn't thought Tony's had become that popular, but he didn't comment on it until they reached Tony himself. The big German sniffed and looked at them with narrowed eyes. "And just what are you two doin' out so late? Old bones should be home in bed."

"Heard your pitiful little place had good music," Harry replied in turn, giving the other man a greeting buffet on the arm. "Well, that's an exaggeration. Heard your place had music."

"Oi, Jack! When git here orders a drink, extra spit!" Tony called over his shoulder, careful not to use Harry's real name. With Ginny in her guise as Amy Mason and Harry's hair flattened over his scar, they looked like two normal young people out for a night on the town. "Nice to see you, Miss Mason."

Ginny didn't look all that surprised to see that Tony knew her undercover name. "Always a pleasure, Tony. How're you?"

"I'm great, but you two are holding up the line. Go on in." Tony waved them past and Harry kept a hand below Ginny's elbow. Tony's had been massively transformed, both saw as they entered. Immediately, a hard wall of thumping techno music them face-on, and bright lights dazzled them. Tony had turned the place into some kind of disco—the dance floor tiles, to Harry's unending amusement, actually lit up. There was a bar tracing all along the back wall, giving way to the dance floor and a stage. Tonight, there was no live band, just a DJ pumping beats from his oversized (and, to Harry's suspicion, magically enhanced) stereo system.

"You know," Ginny shouted at him over the music, "you may be great at ballroom dancing, but this is MY arena!" She grabbed his hand and tugged him over to the bar. "You like martinis, right?"

Harry wondered if it was wise to mention the fact that twelve-year-olds could drink him under the table. He decided against it, operating on the purely male principle that showing any weakness in front of a girl you were trying to impress was completely and totally forbidden, like putting the toilet seat back down. It was a purely primeval way of staking one's territory. "Yeah. Martinis are good," he said, wondering if he should grunt or something. Instead, he just took the drink and sipped it. "I had no idea that this place was so popular. I mean, I knew Tony made fairly good money, but…" He trailed off as he looked into the bobbing crowd.

"Some people like to live on the wild side!" Like him, Ginny was canvassing the area with her eyes, picking out potential suspects and making sure that nobody would attack them. There was no telling if Dermot would come back to finish the job he had started years before. She took a sip of her martini and swirled it around, watched the olive. "You don't go clubbing all that often, do you?"

"Not really, no. I told you that first time we saw each other—I'm _boring_." Harry shrugged and set his martini down, grabbing two bar stools and dragging them over. They kept their backs to the bar, the field agent instincts in both of them flaring up. No field agent would put his or her back to a crowded room. "In fact, I believe it's almost my normal bed time."

"Is that your line?" Ginny asked, wrinkling her nose. 

"My—er—line? What?"

"You know, your pick-up line. To pick up women!" Ginny laughed at his startled expression. "Oh, come on. You could have any woman you want. Don't tell me you've never used a line before?"

Harry scratched the back of his neck. "Er, guilty?"

"Oh, come on. Never?"

"I was telling the truth. Never." He was starting to get a bit annoyed now. Perhaps she saw that, for she broke off in a peal of laughter and grabbed his hand again. "Er—where are we going?"

"Dancing! That's why we came out tonight!" Before he could protest, she had dragged him away from the bar and the two were rapidly headed to the heart of the dance floor. Harry, being naturally agile, was able to adjust his balance when other dancers plowed into him. Ginny was a natural on the dance floor, avoiding all collisions with an ease that surprised him. When he stood there, frozen, she laughed and began to show him various moves. He mimicked her with varying success, and soon both were laughing at his mishaps.

He'd learned ballroom dancing—tangos, waltzes, fox trots—out of necessity and boredom, but this was a style of dancing that he might actually enjoy. Ginny was certainly having the time of her life. Her eyes were closed and she was pressed up against him in the crowded space. Never had he been more aware of his own body and of hers, but still, he kept a cautious eye out on the balcony that overlooked the dance floor. They gained a bit of a posse for awhile, but the university students quickly grew bored with Harry's stilted dance moves. Occasionally, Ginny would open her eyes to smirk at him.

_Why aren't you dating this woman, again? _His mind wanted to know as the songs switched. _Oh, right, she's your charge, by all definitions. You're her bodyguard and all. And her brother would probably kill you for trying to do anything with her while you're both on this case. And, oh, yeah, she might not even like you. Then there's always the fact that if you make a move and she really _doesn't _feel that way, and then things will be even more awkward than before._

"I think I need to sit down for a bit," Ginny called to him over the music, interrupting his self-deprecating stream of consciousness. "Why don't you go dance with that blonde over there? She's been eyeing you all night!"

Harry had noticed. The blonde, after all, wasn't very subtle.

"No, thanks! I'll go get a drink with you!" He followed her off the dance floor, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw it. A flash of peroxide-white blond. It wasn't very clear, but it was enough. He swivelled to the right, and there indeed was Draco Malfoy crossing the upper balcony. As Harry watched, eyes narrowed, the blond man said something to a bouncer, a guard of some sort, and was let through a black door of some sort. "On second thought, I need to see a man about a ferret."

Before Ginny could ask what was going on, Harry had crossed the crowded pub and was making his way back to the door. Tony was still admitting patrons, although the line had thinned quite a bit. "Tony? A word?"

"Sure." Tony signalled one of the bouncers to take his place and walked back into the alley without a question. Harry followed him, checking over his shoulder. Already, he was starting to feel stupid for leaving Ginny inside the same pub Draco Malfoy was in, but this conversation shouldn't take long. "What's up, Harry?"

Harry crossed his arms, but kept his stance loose. He could trust Tony; he knew that much. But he had to wonder at the other man's motives. "Draco Malfoy. He comes here?"

Tony's answer was a mere shrug. "He's a heavy card player. I see him occasionally."

He knew that Tony's establishment took in all sorts of riffraff and criminals, mainly to play cards in what they believed to be a "safe" environment. Tony and Jack usually delivered all relevant information to the Tunnel. But this was almost too much. He was letting _Malfoy_ come in and play cards like a good little saint? Harry opened his mouth to protest, but Tony clamped a steely hand on his shoulder. "Remember the deal I kept with the Tunnel," the pub-owner said coldly, any friendliness gone from his voice. "You 'overlook' my activities as long as I give you information. What Malfoy is doing here is none of your business."

"Malfoy's doings are every bit my business," Harry replied in just as cold a voice, shrugging Tony's hand off. "I'm assigned to his case. He has partial ownership of the Nottingham Typhoon, and we believe he may be using the team to hide some sort of Dark Activity."

"With the gambling debts that man owes? I doubt it. He's probably just invested in the team to cover his scrawny arse." Tony snorted, his good humour back. "Look, Harry, you stick to our deal, and I'll get you that information. I work with a lot of trash like Malfoy. It's not the best job in the world, but somebody's gotta do it." He shrugged, and the subject was dropped, just like that. "Why don't you and Miss Mason enjoy another drink on the house and then head home? I'd hate for Mr. Malfoy to spot you."

"Sure. You're right. Thanks, Tony."

"I do what I can."

Tony resumed his position at the door and Harry headed back into the pub, hands stuck in the pockets of his slacks. He wanted to give into his juvenile temptations and storm that door and attack Malfoy on the spot. He had no doubt that the blond rat was behind his demotion to the Nottingham Typhoon. The move had only made his hatred of the peroxide-ferret, as he and Ron had started calling Malfoy whenever they were a little less than sober, grow exponentially. Still, Tony's message had been clear—if Harry attacked Malfoy here, the pub-owner's cover would be blown. Harry certainly didn't want to jeopardise this operation and pit Tony against the Tunnel, so he kept his head down and crossed the pub, trying to keep his temper in check.

What he saw as he neared Ginny did nothing to help him in that area. In the time he was talking to Tony, a brown-haired man had approached her and was apparently trying to chat her up. Jealousy flaring, Harry stopped walking and instead made a beeline for the bar. "Jack—something strong."

The greasy-haired attendant was in no mood to hurry. He sneered and then smiled as he looked down Harry's line of sight. "Say, isn't that your woman?"

"She's not my woman," Harry grumbled, accepting the whiskey that Jack pushed over his way. He downed it in one gulp and nearly gasped at the burn it caused. "Gimme another."

Jack simpered. "Nope, you're at your limit, buddy. No more than one whiskey for you. House rules."

"Screw house rules. Gimme another whiskey."

"Go take out some of your aggression on smarmy-trousers over there and get away from my bar. You're a royal pain in my arse." Jack snorted and Harry turned just in time to see Ginny give the man a poisonous look. Having been the recipient of that look many times, Harry knew exactly what was happening. He set the whiskey glass down and took his time ambling over, trying not to let anybody see just how much the whiskey had affected him.

"Is there a problem here?" he demanded, hiding the slur in his words.

Ginny looked caught between a grateful and a perverse look. "No—" she began to say, but was cut off by the man. "There wasn't a minute ago, but now there is," he told Harry, stepping a little closer. Not left with too many options, Harry stepped in between him and Ginny.

"Get away from her." His voice was low, to the point of a dangerous rasp. It was a voice he hadn't used since Voldemort's fall. Instantly recognising it, Ginny froze behind him. "I mean it."

"Who are you, her bodyguard?" the man demanded, more than a little drunk.

"As a matter of fact—"

"_Harry_!" Ginny interrupted, tugging on his shirtsleeve urgently. He tried to brush her off, but she clamped her hand around his arm and yanked him backwards. The man snickered, making Harry's blood boil strangely in his ears. His head felt light. "Maybe we should just go."

"Go?" the man asked, laughing raucously. He had a few centimetres about a two stone on Harry, but Harry was a professional Quidditch player and a trained athlete. There was no doubt in the young Seeker's mind that he could take this idiot. "What, babe, go with _him_?" Harry's hands clenched into fists. "You'll just put out for _anybody, _won't you?"

"Harry, _no_—!"

But it was too late. Harry sent his fist crashing through the man's face. The man staggered back a few paces and just dropped like a stone, cursing up a storm fit for a king. Before Harry could take a second swing, Ginny had grabbed his ear (of all things!) and was using it to haul him from the pub. Harry swore. The man tried to follow them, but one of Tony's bouncers held him back, unnoticed to Harry. He was still complaining about his ear. "Ow, Ginny! Lemme go!"

When they reached the alley, she released him and shoved him away for her, face red from anger. "What is your _problem_?"

It didn't occur to him that he had entered a very dangerous zone. He'd made Ginny mad before, but never like this. Never to the point of nearly hitting him. "What? My _problem_? That guy was—"

"I know what that guy was, Harry!" Ginny stabbed his chest with a finger, pushing him back into the brick wall behind him. The whiskey burning in his system, Harry stumbled a little. "Honestly, you're as bad as my brothers! I could have handled him!"

"Well, I handled him better!"

"Harry, you broke his jaw!"

Distraction in the middle of a fight was never a good thing, but Harry couldn't help it. He just stared at her, slack-jawed. Her eyes were practically as bright as stars, her cheeks flushed from her fury, her hair dishevelled from dancing. She was standing there tensed and ready to slug him, and he was noticing how amazing she looked? What was wrong with him? He blinked and stared at her again, but he'd already forgotten what she had just said. "Earth to Harry!" She snapped her fingers in front of his face, making him jump. "Quit staring at me like a lovesick fool! What is _up _with you tonight?!"

Over drinks one night, George had confided to Harry and Ron that there were two truly good ways to shut a woman up—kill her or kiss her. Of course, he'd said, if you kill her, you don't have to deal with any repercussions from her, but things might fly at your head if you kissed her.

Harry Potter decided it was time to take that risk, even though he didn't imagine that George had shared that information, thinking it might be his own sister Harry used it on.

Later on, he couldn't have described the kiss as anything but "amazing." One minute, they were in each other's faces, shouting at each other. And then…and then he was cupping her face with his hands and kissing her like it was the last thing he would ever do. She froze for what seemed like an eternity, and then she was burning into him, moulding against him. An eternity and no time later, he pulled away.

He'd thrown her off—her cheeks were even more flushed, her eyes glazed over in disbelief or shock. She just stared at him for a long time, and then finally closed her mouth. To his everlasting surprise, she gave him a dirty look. "Merlin, Harry. I thought you were more mature than that."

Before he could even say anything, she vanished.

Furious with her and with himself, Harry turned and punched the first thing he could think of—the wall. "Oh, SH—!"

*

"Blimey, mate, what'd you do to it?" Bear asked the next day, as the team was getting changed for the big game. They were in their home stadium, having won the Galleon toss about where the teams would play. Tad, Frank, and Bear were all gathered around Harry, examining his outstretched hand. Which happened to be his right hand, the one he always used to grab the Snitch. "Think you'll be able to play?"

"I'll be fine." Harry flexed the hand and hid his wince. Hermione had tried to heal it the night before, but mending broken bones always caused some pain for a couple of days afterwards. Plus, he didn't think she was inclined to be too nice, as she thought him rather juvenile for the whole bar montage. At least Ron didn't have a clue that Harry had nearly started a pub brawl over and then kissed his younger sister. Otherwise Harry didn't think he would be able to fly, much less breathe. "I'll grab it with my left hand if I have to."

"What's going on?" Tracy called from the women's side of the locker room.

"Harry broke his hand in a pub brawl last night," Frank called gleefully. Harry shot him a sour look, but he ignored the Seeker and cheerfully went about getting into his full gear. They had half an hour until warm-ups began and an hour before the game. The Dublin Demented were out on the field right now, warming up. Harry longed to go sneak a peek at them, but Dave Davenport's rules had been very strict. The team was to remain in the locker room until they were fetched by Ginny, acting as Amy Mason. "Was it over Amy?"

"More like next to her," Harry answered truthfully, wincing. "I was kind of an idiot."

"You punched some random bloke over Amy?" Stacy wanted to know. "Wow, that's incredibly sweet. I've never had a guy do that for me."

"She has different sentiments." Harry pulled an undershirt on and reached for the Quidditch robes. "I'm lucky she hasn't hexed me into oblivion yet. Maybe she's waiting until after the game." That thought made him wince again, for he knew that Ginny was more than capable of doing something like that. She'd stayed with Tara the night before, and her look when they had passed each other in the corridor earlier made subzero feel warm.

"Maybe she'll feel differently once you kiss her," Tad offered helpfully, for the team was certain that they would win.

Harry didn't mention that kissing her was what exactly had buried him in this trouble. Instead, he busied himself with pulling the robes over his head and searching for the shin guards. Seeing that Harry wasn't going to rise to any of their gibes, Frank and Tad moved to a new subject and the team joked around for a bit until Ginny came to fetch them for warm-ups. To Harry's surprise, she walked beside him as the team ambled out onto the field. "Just go on out for a minute. I need to steal Potter for a minute."

He wanted to wince a third time. Her use of his last name was not a good thing. Still, he waited as the rest of the team, shooting him pitying looks, headed out to the cheers of the gathering crowds. Ginny waited until they had all exited the glass doors leading from the building to the pitch. Her look could melt glass from its pane. "We need to talk."

"I noticed." He leaned against his broom, a natural and familiar pose. They had used it for the promotional photo shoots, although he had no idea that he was posing now. "I'm an idiot."

"Agreed." She pursed her lips and finally looked at him. "What on earth got into you last night, Harry? You're not normally like—like—"

"Like I was at seventeen?" he filled in drolly.

"Well—yeah."

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, unconsciously making it stand up like his father used to at Hogwarts. He'd had all night to think of what he would say to her, and now he was left with no words. As furious as he was with her for calling him immature, he was smart enough to know when he was at fault (or, at least Hermione was smart enough to beat it into his head). "Caught me at a bad moment. Malfoy was in the club last night." Her eyes widened and he nodded grimly. "I was an idiot and tried to confront Tony about it, and he basically kicked us out. And then I came and saw that guy hitting on you…" 

He shrugged and scratched the back of his neck, trying to find a way out of the next part of his little speech. Seeing that he was in for all or nothing, he sighed. "Look, I don't think I've made it a huge secret that I like you more than what's proper, seeing as I'm your bodyguard and all. I may seem all different now than I was at Hogwarts, but I'm a _guy_, Ginny. It's like this Neanderthal instinct. Find food. Scratch self. Protect woman." He actually thought he caught a smile at this, but it may have just been a trick in the light. "And I'm not going to apologise for kissing you, because I would do it again given the opportunity."

She eyed him shrewdly for a long time. "Angie's right."

Of all the answers he was expecting, this one wasn't on the list. "She is?"

"Yes, actually. You did _bounce_."

He stared, but before he could ask what she meant by that, Dave Davenport stuck his head into the hallway and spotted the pair of them. "Potter! You're supposed to be warming up!"

"Yes, sir." When Dave disappeared from the hallway, Harry turned back to Ginny. "I'm sorry I made a fool out of you last night and that I took advantage of you in the alley. I won't do it again."

She was looking at him with an expression that he couldn't quite decipher, so he fidgeted a bit and waited for an answer. Finally, she let out a gusty sigh. "You're making it _very _hard to stay mad at you."

"Then don't. I'm a nice guy, I promise, Gin, if you ignore the fact that I occasionally regress." Had somebody told him even eight years before that he would be the well-balanced young man he was now, he would have laughed. But even he had his faults. He was well-aware of all of them (something for which he blamed Hermione, who liked to point them out to him when he was being stubborn). "For now, just tell me you forgive me and you're not mad so that I can go win this game."

She shook her head and closed her eyes. "Sure. Make it about the team, why don't you?" But her smile was back to normal, her eyes teasing. "You're forgiven—if you promise never to do anything like that ever again."

"Of course! You have my word," he said hastily. He gave her a smile that didn't quite hide the fact that he was nervous about the upcoming game. However, now that he didn't have an annoyed redhead on his case, things were starting to look up. In fact, a little of his old humour was starting to come back. "How about a kiss for luck?"

"Now you're pushing it, Potter." But she gave him a kiss on the cheek anyway. "Now get out there before Dictator Dave comes back!"

Laughing, he took off for the Pitch.

*

The Nottingham Typhoon didn't take long to become the favourite team of the match. The Davenports had been wise, almost crafty, in their choices of players—with the Harrows' twins unmatched beauty, Melinda Warren's daredevil stunts with a Quaffle, Tad and Frank's jovial Beating skill, and even Bear's kamikaze Keeping moves, they were naturally the ones the crowd cheered for. They instinctively knew when to drop all pretences and just do a little crowd-control, flying around with raised arms to start a wave or purposely flying close to the crowd to see some young boy look up with his mouth hanging wide open. Harry Potter, of course, was automatically any crowd's favourite, even though he didn't try any of his teammates' stunts. He'd pushed all extra noise from his head in his search from the Snitch.

They were obviously the better team, as well. Dublin Demented presented a ferocious offence, spearheaded by none other than Seamus Finnegan ("Oi! Harry, mate! Good luck!" he'd shouted to Harry at the match's beginning), but their defence was pretty poor, practically handing the Harrows and Melinda several token shots. The Typhoon had a better camaraderie than the Demented, it turned out. While the Demented gained an early and fast lead, it hadn't taken long for the Typhoon to adjust and match, pulling ahead. They were ahead by 130 points, and Harry had yet to spot the Snitch. His main goal the moment was to keep Pierce McAnerney, the Demented Seeker, from spotting it first. As a result, he had pulled an impressive Wronski Feint and two Poseidon Pseudo-Passes to trick McAnerney. Of course, the other Seeker was sharp and hadn't been tricked very often. Indeed, Harry had been on the receiving end of some brilliant ploys as well.

"Doing okay there, Harry?" Bear called as Harry swooped near the Typhoon goal posts. "Soon as you bag that Snitch, you kiss Miss Mason. You know that, right? Is that why it's taking you forever?"

"Ha-ha," Harry called in reply, not really up to trying any of their normal banter. He thought he'd seen a flash of gold near the Demented goal posts, but it turned out to be one of their Chasers' watches. "Seen the Snitch anywhere lately?"

"That's _your_ job, mate!" Bear did an impressive Starfish and Stick roll to block a shot and tossed it easily to Melinda, who lobbed it at Stacy without bothering to look to see if she was there. The three Typhoon Chasers were almost to the point of reading each others' minds during matches. Surely enough, Stacy scooped the Quaffle from the air and shot from the sky, two Demented Chasers hot on her trail. Harry tore his eyes away from the action to scan the ground once again from any glimmers of gold. A few seconds later, the Typhoon fan section let out a rousing cheer—Tracy Harrows had just plunked in another great goal, bringing the score up to 360 to 220. 140 points ahead. If the other team caught the Snitch now, it would be very similar to the World Cup match Harry had attended before his fourth year at Hogwarts.

"Couple more goals and you'll have to kiss Miss Mason even if _you_ fail!" Tad chortled as he rushed by in hot pursuit of one of the Bludgers.

Harry rolled his eyes and glanced over at McAnerney. The other Seeker was searching the area near his own goal posts with a sharp-eyed intensity. The Dublin Demented was a top-notch team, with a fantastic Seeker, but Harry couldn't help but feel a swell of pride as he watched his own team interact without the slightest difficulty. Stacy and Tracy added a fast-paced intensity to Melinda Warren's reckless stunts. Adrenaline was pumping harder than blood by now, giving the team a hardened edge as each threw his or her all into the game. The cheering was nothing more than the sound of the wind in the teams' ears.

He turned just in time to see Melinda perform a flawless dead-fish roll (so named because it ended belly-up) and loft the Quaffle straight through the middle hoop. The Demented Keeper didn't stand a chance.

Movement out of the corner of his eye made Harry swear and pull into a sharp dive. McAnerney had spotted the Snitch. Harry could see it, fluttering down near Tad Gideon's left shoe. The Beater, seeing two Seekers press down on him, barrel-rolled out of the area and took off, yelling his support for Harry at the top of his lungs. Harry, flat against the handle of his broom handle, swore more viciously. He was a few pounds lighter than McAnerney, but the other man was fast in a dive. Soon they were neck and neck, chasing after the fluttering and random Snitch.

"Move, Potter, you bloody waste of space!" McAnerney shouted at him, but Harry just forced himself to faster. They dove around Stacy Harrows, Harry flying above her and McAnerney under her. She froze, still holding the Quaffle, and watched the two Seekers pulled into a steep dive. The Demented Beaters sent Bludgers after Harry, but he was on the hunt. A simple twitch to the right moved him out of the path.

Yes…yes…he was gaining now, he was sure of it. Flatter against the handle, Harry dove, accelerating to the broom's limits, right arm outstretched. Suddenly, vicious, terrible pain flared up his forearm. He shouted a protest, but it was already too late. McAnerney had savagely knocked his injured hand out of the way and had snatched the Snitch from the air. Harry stared, and nearly hit the ground because of it. Luckily, he regained his bearing and pulled out of the dive, swearing malignantly. McAnerney wasn't nearly so lucky—the other Seeker plowed into the ground, to Harry's never-ending satisfaction.

"What the—" His team was all around him now, one of the women examining his injured hand. "Did he do this?"

"No." Harry gritted his teeth against the pain, which seemed to be sucking his whole being into the hand. "I broke it last night—McAnerney must have done something to the charm—"

"Can he do that?"

"Isn't that a foul?"

"Did he really catch the Snitch?"

"Isn't that cobbing?"

The questions poured at him so quickly that his head spun. All over the stadium, the very same questions were being whispered. Harry heard them in the back of his mind, but forced himself on concentrating past the pains. Broken bones were supposed to be easy to heal, unless you went out and played Quidditch with them the very next day. It hadn't hurt this bad since he'd broken his arm back in second year. "Guys—I have to get on the ground. I'm going to pass out."

They double-teamed him then, Bear and Tad each taking a side and pushing their shoulders against him as they lowered him to the ground. Mediwizards were already sprinting across the Pitch, having loaded McAnerney (Snitch and all) onto a magical stretcher. "What's the problem 'ere?" one of them demanded of Bear as the rest of the team gathered around Harry. In the stands, the fans were in an uproar.

"Broken hand—got in the way of McAnerney and the Snitch," Bear explained, keeping a grip on Harry as though afraid the Man-Who-Lived might keel over on them. "Also, you might want to check Frank for a concussion. The Demented backbeating foul did a number on him." Harry glanced over and wasn't surprised to see that Frank's eyes were a bit glazed. One of the mediwizards took care of him while another waved his wand at Harry's hand "He broke it last night, too. So the bones probably weren't done healing."

"And you were still declared well enough to play?" the mediwizard barked at Harry, whose eyes were practically crossed from the pain.

"Just heal it," he grunted.

Snorting imperiously, the healer did as he asked, but poking at it for a good ten minutes after performing the pain-numbing charm. Harry was given a bone-strengthening potion and then sent to the locker room with the rest of his teammates. When he entered, it was to find Dave and Bear nose-to-nose, about two seconds from hexing each other. The rest of the team ranged in a loose semicircle around them, glaring ferociously at Dave. He stilled, his good hand on the doorknob. "What's going on here?"

"YOU!" Dave rounded on him, little piebald face red with anger. "You were _supposed _to catch the Snitch! We were _supposed_ to win!"

"And we didn't. So what? It was just a scrimmage." Harry pushed past the group and started to strip out of his Quidditch robes. His blood was still boiling with anger at McAnerney's obvious foul, but he had learned early on in his career that punching the manager only got you thrown off of the team. "We'll beat them when we play against them in the League."

"We picked YOU because you've never missed the Snitch before!"

"Actually, I missed it once when I was thirteen and Dementors attacked the field." Harry kept his stare aimed at his locker, knowing that Dave would push the just the right buttons to get him going. He had already been in one brawl this week. He didn't have time for another. "But you know what, Dave? It's just a game. We're just a team. The Chasers did a wonderful job today. Bear was fantastic. Frank and Tad each deserve the Beater of the Year award. So the screw-up was mine. It won't happen again. Why don't you try _complimenting_ them instead of getting on MY case?" He threw the dirty robes into his locker and swivelled to face the manager, standing there in just his game slacks and his undershirt. Sweat ranged on his upper body and made his hair straggle appealingly into his face, but he didn't notice. He was trying his best not to be furious and failing. Dave Davenport had never been one of his favourite people, and now the manager was dangerously close to crossing a line Harry didn't like.

Dave actually opened his mouth to retort to Harry's accusations, but Stacy Harrows was too quick for him. "_Silentius_!"

Without even a word of planning, Frank and Tad each hauled on one of the small man's arms, dragging him forcefully from the locker room. Stacy, Tracy, and Melinda began applauding, and Bear let out a wolf-whistle. A few seconds later, the two Beaters returned with matching broad grins. "We stuffed him in a broom cupboard," Frank told the team. "That should be the last we hear of him today. Maybe we'll come back in the morning and let him out."

Tad's grin told the rest of the team that this was unlikely. Chuckling to themselves, the team changed and showered. To Harry's surprise, the team wasn't too upset about the tie at all. "We actually won," Bear told him as they emerged from the showers, towels wrapped around their waists. "See, the way I see it, what McAnerney did to you was a foul, even though they claim that you were just between him and the Snitch. He punched your bloody hand!"

"Sucker-punched it, more like." Harry shook his head as he pulled on a clean pair of boxers and reached for his slacks. "I don't think I've ever seen somebody pull of the Tullerton Block like you did against Finnegan's upper-cross shot halfway into the game." He reached for his pants just as Stacy and Tracy came around the men's side of the locker room. "Hey! A little privacy here?"

They waved that off with a snort. "C'mon. We had a wager going. Pay up."

Harry stared. In his fury over Dave and McAnerney, he'd completely forgotten about the wager. "We didn't win _or _lose. We tied! I don't have to do anything!"

"Correction—you have to do _both_."

It took much cajoling and even a bit of muscling on the Beaters' part to get Harry over to the women's side of the locker room, where Ginny was seated on the bench, chatting comfortably with Melinda. She raised her eyebrows at seeing Harry dragged over by Tad and Frank, who both had several centimetres on him. Bear followed the lot, chortling with mirth. He was clad only in a towel, but his lack of clothing didn't seem to bother him. Indeed, Harry had never had the opportunity to pull his pants on, so he wore only his tartan boxer shorts. "Is something going on?"

_Why are all the women fully-dressed and us guys in boxers and towels_? Harry wondered desperately as Tracy informed Ginny that the team had had a small wager going on the game. "Mind you," she told Ginny, "this was supposed to be in front of the whole audience, but we decided to go easy on him. Ready, Harry?"

"No," Harry grumbled, not looking at Ginny. He wondered how long it would take to outrun the others if he bolted right now. No, one of the twins would probably put a feet-freezing charm on him. And besides, who wants to run through a Quidditch stadium in one's boxers? Why did Frank Sinatra, who was an American Muggle, have to be so popular in wizarding Britain? "Let's just get this over with."

Frank started it off, crooning a low, slow note. A minute later, he was joined by Tad, and then Bear. Between the three of them, they formed the easy melody. Harry, left with no other choice, sighed and resigned himself to his fate. Frank handed him one of the Beater's bats and he sang into that like it was a microphone. 

"Strangers in the night, exchanging glances," he began, finally working up the nerve to look at Ginny. She was staring down at her shoes, her face beet-red. _Might as well enjoy this since I can't get out of it_. "Wond'ring in the night—what were the chances we'd be sharing loooove before the night was through—"

Stacy and Tracy began applauding, and he pretended to tip an invisible fedora at them. Oh, Merlin. His worst nightmare was coming true—he was singing to the woman he liked more than was believable, dressed in only his boxers and pretending that a Beater's bat was a microphone. Where had reality gone?

"Something in your eyes," he continued, "was so inviting…something in your smile was so exciting…something in my heart told me I must have yooooooouuu!" 

A real fedora dropped onto his head as he sang, not really caring that he didn't have the best singing voice anymore. He'd been informed that he was a baritone, and some of the notes were hard for him to reach, but he still tried. 

At some point in the song, Ginny found the courage to look up and start giggling with the Chasers. The men on the team all swayed in rhythm, Bear, Frank, and Tad even snapping their fingers and occasionally helping Harry out with the melody. "Ever since that night we've been together," all four crooned, standing in a line, "lovers at first sight, in love forever!" The women were falling off of the bench from laughter by now. Even Ginny was clutching her middle as though her ribs ached from laughing so hard. "It turned out so right…for straaangers in the niiiiight!"

It started first with Frank, who actually started giggling behind his hands, and spread to Tad, then Bear, and finally Harry. Harry actually had to hold himself up with Tracy's open locker. It wasn't long before tears were streaming down his face. "What on earth was that?" Ginny demanded through her giggles, standing up.

"He lost a wager—twice over." Stacy was red-faced from laughing as she stood up as well, helping Bear to his feet. The lanky Keeper was, like his Beater friends, clad only a towel, and Harry could tell that the women were enjoying the show. All of them were athletes. He was fairly sure that they made for a good show without shirts on, especially with Tad and Frank as bulky with muscles as they were. Of course, he had gained some tone since his days at Hogwarts, but Harry still wasn't much to look at, in his own opinion. "So…now he has to pay up on the second point?"

"In front of all of you?" Harry asked, wiping away the mirthful tears.

"That _was_ the deal," Bear felt the need to remind him.

"What's going on?" Ginny demanded, looking between all of them. "What's the second part of the bet?" She swung her head around to look at Harry, still standing there and trying not to look too abashed. 

He wished that he could go back and pull a pair of trousers on or something. "Well, er," he said, scratching the back of his neck and wishing everybody would stop gathering around them. "I'm supposed to kiss you now."

She raised her eyebrow at him, her expression gone. "You are?"

His face was bright red now. There were only a handful of things that could make him feel fourteen again, and Ginny Weasley turned out to be one of them. She pressed herself up against him and actually wrapped her arms around her middle, making him redden a bit further while Bear and Tad catcalled. "Well, the deal was that if we won, I had to kiss you."

Both eyebrows went up now. "But you tied!"

"So I had to sing to you _and _kiss you. Trust me, the humiliation with this team is never going to end." Harry pretended to send a glare around to all of them. "A little privacy here?"

"Oh, just kiss her already!" Melinda, of all people, ordered, rolling her eyes. Everybody in the room stared at her, and she ducked her head, reverting back to her normal shy girl phase. "And then we can have a toast and drink to our first game as a team!"

So he did.

"What is going on in here?" Ulysses Davenport himself barged into the locker room, eyebrows going wide at the sight of his team, all in various states of undress, holding up goblets of sparkling champagne and laughing. "You were all supposed to be outside to sign promotional photos ten minutes ago! Where's Dave?"

Bear handed him a flute of champagne. "We stuffed him into a broom closet! C'mon, boss! Live a bit. You just missed a great concert!"

And to Ulysses' confusion, the team burst out laughing once again. Sighing, the old man left the locker room. He'd hired a good team all right. Daft as a board, but good.


	6. Topaz Backdrop

Disclaimer: JKR is a wonderful woman, isn't she? I mean, she owns this awesome universe and I don't think I've ever heard of her complaining about fanfiction. Well, since she doesn't protest, I'm just here to play in the universe. Tara Staples belongs to me (really, she does, she's been copyrighted to me), but everything else is property of the wonderful JKR. I'm not here to make any money.

A/N: Sorry about the delay between chapters. Between moving, being sick, being tired, working enough to make Sara Sidle proud, and working on my original projects (check out my biggest one soon at http:smoothcriminal.4t.com), I just haven't given this story much thought.

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Chapter Six: Topaz Backdrop

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Sydney, Australia, several months before

"Keep him down! Check him for any weapons—and I mean _any_! I don't put Stun Capsules past this guy!" Ginny Weasley was in her element, her knees shoved into the back of Hostile Number Two, her hand splayed across the back of his neck. Her wand was pointed straight at his temple. "_Petrificus Totalus_!" Satisfied that he was rendered immobile, she stuck her wand into her arm sheath. She then began to search him, padding down his sides until she found what she was looking for: a simple Muggle handgun.

Her frustration grew when the search turned up without a wand. Had she really just bagged a Muggle? _This _was going to require extra paperwork. She sighed and retrieved her own handgun. She kept it jabbed into the back of the con's neck as she removed the hex.

"Witch!" he shouted at her.

"You'd better believe it." A quick silencing charm took care of any further outbursts. Working quickly, she was able to wrangle his wrists into handcuffs behind his back. She then hauled him up to his feet. Ginny may have _looked_ small, but there was a lot of strength hidden in that light build. Gun still jabbed into his side, she more-or-less dragged the con to the side of the road. A little force was all it took to send the creep to the curb, sitting with his hands cuffed behind his back. He glared at her—blue eyes, shaved head, tattoo of a blue dragon on the side of his face. Definitely a Muggle, but still a problem, as he was currently teamed up with a drop-out wizard from Australia's local Lyon Institute.

Tara showed up a few seconds later, hauling the very same wizard behind her. She propelled him forward, and Ginny saw a flash of bright blond, too bright to be natural, and the same blue eyes. Were these two brothers? It certainly looked it—they were of the same height and build, with the same eyes. "Brothers?" Tara asked, reading her mind.

Ginny flipped her hostile's wallet open. "Lionel Camden. Yours got a name?"

"Oh, wouldn't you look at this?" Tara snorted and flipped open another wallet, showing the picture ID to Ginny. She turned back to look at the wizard, blond eyebrows raised. "You ain't eighteen, kid. You're not fooling anybody with this." Turning back to Ginny as the wizard swore at her, Tara shrugged. "Says his name's Jay Camden. I'd say brothers…or very close cousins."

"Jay and Lionel Camden?" Ginny scowled and cast a silencing charm on Jay, who was still swearing fit to make a sailor blush. "We go from solving serial murder cases to chasing down the likes of idiots like these two?"

Tara laughed and slapped her friend on the shoulder. "Call it in with the office." She held up a thin dowel of wood, obviously Jay's wand. Ginny watched his eyes widen with a sense of personal satisfaction. "As for this, it should have been snapped when you left the Lyon Institute. Here, let me do you a favour." As Jay howled in a silent scream of protest, she snapped the wand cleanly in half.

A few moments later, wizards from the Australian Ministry of Magic had taken both Jay and Lionel into custody while Ginny and Tara watched discreetly from a few blocks away. They were ranged comfortably outside of a small café, Ginny's arms crossed as she watched the proceedings from her vantage point against a pole. "You ever think they're going to figure out that we're not just angels trying to help them out?" she asked Tara, who was chewing on a piece of gum and trying not to look bored. Tara never wanted to stay around while the authorities picked up the cons, or hostiles, that they bagged on behalf of the Tunnel.

"Good work," came a gruff voice over the magically-enhanced ear-pieces both wore as part of the Tunnel uniform. "I'm proud to say that you have the local Ministry rather stumped."

"Thanks, Will," Tara said to the air, her drawling accent languid. "Are we done for the night? Ginny's wound up tighter than a two-year-old on sugar, and if I don't get some alcohol in my system, I fear madness is a very likely possibility."

"Ferris and Stedman should be able to cover any trouble without a problem. You two go out, have a drink on me."

"We owe you one," Ginny replied before taking the ear-piece out and stuffing it into her pocket. She stretched her arms out in front of her and glanced over at her partner. Tara Staples was her right side, it felt like at times. They'd known each other for a few years, but never had they become so close until they'd both accepted the transfer to Australia. It was almost to the point of mind-reading sometimes, but not the close bond Ginny had developed with Hermione once upon a time. Still, Tara didn't seem to mind. She chewed her gum silently, her body still. "We're going to Quinn's, right?"

"Of course we're going to Quinn's." Tara pulled her blond ponytail loose, sending perfectly formed blonde curls over her shoulder. "Take off your hex-vest. We can stash them in the apartment on the way." For they were both wearing the fitted, padded vests that blocked a wide range of hexes. Of course, they were as resilient as normal clothing to the Unforgiveables, but the hex-vest had saved Ginny from a hairy situation a time or two. She peeled off the thick garment now, and wrinkled her nose at the state of the T-shirt she wore underneath. Tara faced similar results. "Maybe we'll change while we're at it."

"Good idea," Ginny agreed quickly, and Disapparated.

Quinn's was the local witches and wizards' pub in Sydney, where the Tunnel mainly operated on the Australian continent. Ginny and Tara were both regulars there, having spent a majority of Saturday nights in their assignment in the friendly, somewhat rundown pub. Quinn knew both of them by name, and their drink preferences (A Concrete Aardvark and a Virgin Strawberry Daiquiri). "I think that fellow over there's checking you out," Ginny muttered to Tara as they entered together, smiling at the bouncer.

Tara made no secret of the fact that she was checking him out in return. The subject in question shifted a bit and raised his eyebrows. "A little young," she decided loftily.

"Oh, come on, he's at _least_ twenty-five. Please tell me you've given up that dream of marrying an older rich man." They found empty spots at the bar and leaned against it, smiling over at Quinn. The barkeep ambled over. "We'll have our regular drinks, Quinn, and anything you know about the guy checking my friend over here out."

"Him?" Quinn snorted. "Saleswizard. Not your type."

Tara snapped her fingers, not disappointed in the least. "Anything interesting happen lately, Quinn?"

Quinn, by no means a small wizard, shifted his weight and grinned at her as he filled their drinks. Ginny's theory was that Quinn fancied Tara herself, but she would never voice this to her best friend. "Always digging for information—not healthy in a pretty bird as yourself, Miss Staples."

"Your concern is noted as always, Quinn—"

"Dermot!"

Ginny's hand flew to her wand and gripped it so tightly that her fingernails bit into her own palm. She had seen only a glimpse out of the corner of her eye, but it had been enough. Tara reflexively reached for her own wand and swung her arm in front of Ginny, keeping the other woman behind her protectively. Ginny resisted the urge to fight her friend's arm off, but Tara was right. She was a target now, and it was Tara's job to protect her.

"Where'd you see him?" Tara barked at her.

"There—by the juke box—"

Tara turned to Quinn. "Take Ginny in the back room and keep her there. Put your best bouncer outside the door—nobody but me gets in."

"Tara, that's—"

"Absolutely ridiculous." At the voice that interrupted her, Ginny's blood turned glacial. She knew that voice almost better than her own. She didn't even have time to look and confirm the face that she had memorised; Tara's arm tightened in front of her and shoved her over the bar and at Quinn. Dazed, Ginny careened into the barkeep. "My, my, Tara. I come here to re-establish a friendship and you shove her behind a bar. That's not very nice, is it?"

Tara's jaw locked. "It was just too much to hope that you'd been picked up by the Muggle police, wasn't it, Raine? What are you doing here? Whatever it is, you won't get her."

In the two years that Ginny and Tara had been living it up in Australia, Dermot Raine hadn't changed much. He was still tall and nicely built, complete now with a nice tan from the Australian sunshine. His hair was shorter than it had been before, cropped military-style now. Tara kept her wand pointed at him, but it was lowered discreetly; nobody nearby knew that there was even a disturbance at Quinn's, even though the barkeep himself had frozen. Ginny stood where she had landed, eyes fixed on Dermot and jaw hanging, perhaps ready to scream.

"What?" Dermot asked now, his fake Irish accent holding just a hint of a tease. "She's all yours, now? Is that it?"

"When it comes to _you_, yeah, it is, pig!" Tara shot back, hand twisting about on her wand. "You have thirty seconds to turn and walk away before I Stun you on the spot and leave you outside for the Dingos to enjoy."

Dermot just smiled a bit coldly at her. "After all a fellow does for the pair of you, this is how he gets treated? Not even a chance of friendship?"

"You tried to _kill _me!" Ginny protested, finding her voice. Righteous fury made her vision hazy, but she just clenched her fist around her wand and squared her stance. "Even if you hadn't, I wouldn't want to be friends with a _murderer_!"

For an eternity, Dermot just looked at her without any expression, eyes opaque. "Very well." Without another word, he just turned and walked away. Tara and Ginny, too shocked by what had just happened to move, watched him go.

"What in the blazes was that?" Quinn demanded of his two regular customers, one beside him behind the bar and the other still standing on the other side.

Ginny just shook her head, placed both hands atop the bar, and vaulted cleanly over. "I'm not sure." She looked at Tara, still dazed from the encounter. "Back to Headquarters?"

"Yeah." Tara shook off enough of the daze to smile at Quinn. "Sorry about that—we won't be needing those drinks after all." With just a twist of her wand, she disappeared from the spot. Giving the bartender an apologetic look, Ginny did the same.

"Abercrombie…Euan Abercrombie." Ron looked hard at the file on his desk as though it could tell him something about the subject of its contents by its mere appearance. He knew the kid—well, he wasn't so much of a kid, being a year or two out of Hogwarts—but that didn't mean he knew very much about him. If he remembered correctly, the kid had been frightened of Harry at first, which certainly didn't work in his favour.

But that was what bad press and messy hair got you, as he liked to point out to Harry (who would often at this time lean over and punch him).

Euan had been in Dumbledore's Army in its last official year. He'd been a smart kid, resourceful if a bit on the small side, with wild brown hair and buck teeth. From what Ron could remember, he'd been nearly attached at the hip to another kid in his year, a Terrence Holicrest. A glance underneath Euan's folder proved Ron's suspicions true—there was Terrence's file. Had Terrence been afraid of Harry, too? Ron couldn't remember.

"Oi!" he called to the kitchen, where Hermione was on the phone with one co-worker or another (they had agreed early on that Hermione's co-workers were not to be discussed). "When you've got a minute, can you give me a hand?"

"Sure, what is it?" Hermione's head appeared around the frame of the kitchen door, followed closely by Ginny's. Ron jumped; he had forgotten that Ginny had come over to discuss the Typhoon case while Harry finished up at Quidditch practice. He didn't have Ginny on as tight a leash as Ron would have liked; occasionally, the woman came over to Ron and Hermione's flat by herself, or even stared at her own flat with only Tara Staples for protection. Harry seemed to think she would be fine, although Ron wanted to protest at the top of his lungs. However, this was a battle Ron knew better than to fight.

"Do you remember anything about Euan Abercrombie and Terrence Holicrest?" he asked both of them, holding up the files for evidence. Without a word, Ginny crossed the room and took one of the files. Hermione remained leaning against the door frame, eyebrows knitted together. "They've both contacted a couple of people with an interest to see if 'the thing that came from Dumbledore's Army' is really still around."

"I remember Terrence. We all called him Terry," Ginny said slowly, rifling through the file. "Bright kid. Bit of a troublemaker, but…" She trailed off and studied the file as though she couldn't quite believe her eyes. "Wow, he certainly gave Hermione a run for her money in Transfiguration. Take a look at these marks." She whistled.

Hermione was across the room in an instant, much to the amusement of any Weasleys present. She snatched the folder from Ginny with a "hmmph!" and scanned the page. For a moment, she looked about to cry, but to Ron's amazement, she let out a close-mouthed snort of laughter. "Good one," she told Ginny, handing the file back. "For a minute you had me going."

"I don't see you on the list of Animagi," Ginny told her sister-in-law as Hermione headed back into the kitchen.

"'Course she's not registered," Ron muttered, writing notes in the margins of Euan's file. As much as he enjoyed having his sister back in England, the truth of the matter was that she interrupted the pattern of everyday life. It was supposed to be Harry that was over for dinner, and it was odd to see a redhead in his place. And Ron hadn't missed the looks that had passed between the pair after the Weasleys had all found Harry after the game. _Something _had happened in the Quidditch locker room, and Ron was dying to know what. However, both Ginny and Harry knew how to keep quiet when they wanted to. He scratched his head as he contemplated his sister now. "Why on earth would they make an Unspeakable register?"

"Would it be to our benefit to even have a registered Animagus in the Tunnel?" Hermione wondered. "I mean, anybody worth spying on would have that list memorised."

It looked as though Euan could become a peregrine falcon without even a twist of the wand, according to his file. Ginny sat down and frowned at it, twirling a lock of hair around her finger as she thought. "I think it'd be worth it—I mean the kid's an Animagus at eighteen. Not as impressive as some people we know," and she didn't even need to glance over at Hermione, who had become an otter at the age of sixteen just to prove she could, "but still…it's a big deal. And he was a member of the DA when it was still around. I say that you should recruit both Terrence and Euan."

"Well, that made my decision easy," Ron told her, flicking his wand at the files and Banishing them into the study. "What's for dinner?"

"Harry's picking up some Thai food on the way over. He should be here any minute." Ginny disappeared into the kitchen and re-emerged a second later toting a black briefcase with sinister silver snaps. She set it on the table with a decisive _thunk_. "Lady and gentleman, I give you—the Typhoon Case. All of the papers we've compiled about what we think might be happening behind the scenes at the Typhoon."

"That's a lot of paperwork," was all Ron could say. He was a bit daunted by the task that was ahead of them—he was so busy with the London Fizzing Whizzbee Scandal, and uncovering the bottom of Fudge's dealings with the International Confederacy of Wizards, and now it looked as though he was going to have to deal with Malfoy again. Good. Well, at least this time he would find a way to put Draco Malfoy behind bars—where he belonged. Suddenly, the task didn't seem so unappealing. "Any leads yet?"

"Not too many. Harry and I spent most of last night compiling a list of the people we think involved in the case. We think Sam Werner might actually be spearheading it." She pulled a photograph from the briefcase and slid that over to Ron, who appraised it with wide eyes. 'That's Werner himself, taken at the promotional banquet we had for the Typhoon last night."

"Who's he with?" Ron asked, studying the woman sitting beside the eighty-year-old Sam Werner, a wizened-looking fellow in plain black robes. The woman next to him looked maybe a quarter of his age, nothing more than a trophy wife in magnificent (and showy) dress robes. "That his wife?"

"His granddaughter, actually. She was a couple of years ahead of us in Slytherin. Never had too much to say while at Hogwarts, so it's not likely you'd remember her." Ginny took the photograph back and slid it carefully into a file. "I had Bill check her financial records out, and we've excluded the possibility of her being involved, although there's a high chance there might be wedding bells for her and a certain ferret in the near future."

The thought of Draco Malfoy getting married to anybody other than Pansy Parkinson made Ron want to snort, but he kept his mouth shut. "Was Malfoy present at the banquet last night?"

"No—we looked, but it looks like he's finally learned to keep a low profile." Ginny frowned at a photograph and then passed it across the table. "Those are the Davenports and their agent Simon Bates. It's possible that he's involved." Ron scrutinised the picture; two of the three were definitely related with sharp, regal features. The third, a thinner man that reeked of dirty dealings was brushing delicately at a moustache. All three looked snobbish; it wasn't a wonder that Harry had complained about them.

"I've done some poking around at work, and nobody's heard any whisperings of an upcoming project. Everything seems to be quiet on the western front." Hermione studied the photograph over Ron's shoulder and sighed, pushing a hand through her hair. Ron felt a stab of worry. With each passing day, her exhaustion seemed to grow, but she never wanted to talk about what was wrong. "I wish there was more I could contribute to this case."

"Nonsense," Ginny said quickly before Ron could open his mouth. "You're working hard enough as it is. This case is Harry's and my project, understand me? You're not to get involved."

"Besides," Ron felt the need to contribute, "we need you on the Fizzing Whizzbee scandal in London. Don't worry about this one, hun. Harry and Ginny will handle it just fine."

"Handle what just fine?" asked a voice from the doorway. Harry came in bearing a brown paper sack that steamed deliciously.

Ginny turned to smile at him. "The Typhoon case. Hermione's trying to lose even more sleep and help us out." She smiled and, to Ron's slack-jawed amazement, kissed Harry's cheek as she passed him on the way to the kitchen. When she emerged a few seconds later with plates and cutlery, all three of the trio were staring at her. "What?"

Ron wrenched his mouth shut. "You just—you just kissed Harry!"

To his amazement, Ginny merely turned and looked at Harry with a bemused expression. She seemed to shrug and turn back to Ron. "So I did. Heh."

"You just kissed Harry!" Ron repeated, still not sure reality had set in.

Harry, who had by now recovered, muffled a snicker. "You're starting to sound like a broken record," he warned Ron as he began to unload the sack of take-out. Ron heard Hermione's snickering behind him, but couldn't stop staring between the pair of them. "When—when did this happen?"

"Me kissing Harry? Just now," Ginny said at her sweetest. Grinning devilishly, she reached out and ruffled Ron's hair. He had the sense to dodge out of the way. Seeing his expression, she giggled and finally took pity on him. "Relax, dear brother of mine, it was just a peck on the cheek."

Hermione squeezed his shoulder and began distributing food onto the plates, smiling to herself. Still a bet shell-shocked, Ron gathered up his files and deposited them on the sideboard for later viewing. They kept the Typhoon case files in the middle of the table, presumably for dinner conversation.

Before long, everybody was situated with a glass of wine and a steaming plateful of Thai food, and Ron was puzzling the new development over in his head. Harry and Ginny—together? At one point, it had seemed so natural. Ginny had been the only person who could beat Harry down with a single word or look. But now? Harry had gained a polish and Ginny seemed to have developed an exoskeleton. There was a gritty side of her that poked out when she didn't think others were looking. It was like the roles had been completely reversed. What on earth made them decide to fall for each other _now_? Was that his fault, for assigning (begrudgingly, he would admit) Harry as Ginny's bodyguard?

Or had that dinner he had interrupted aeons ago been a _date_?

The possibility had never even occurred to him.

"Something the matter?" Hermione asked as the four dug into the food. "You're thinking about something pretty hard over there, hon."

Ron jerked out of his thoughts enough to smile distractedly at his wife. "Just thinking—unfamiliar territory and all, so it takes some concentration." That earned him a snort of laughter from Harry and grins from the two women. He cleared his throat and decided to get down to business. "So how close are we to finding out what the Typhoon is hiding?"

Ginny took a sip of wine. "Not remotely close, unfortunately. Has your agent on Sam Werner picked up any information?"

"Nothing," Hermione told her, for Ron had not even seen the information yet. He had been commuting between the twins' shop in London and the Tunnel headquarters every day, and so had been so busy that he had barely even seen Hermione all week. This was their first sit-down dinner in quite some time. Still, Ron didn't mind the company—Ginny was his sister and Harry was his best mate. If it were anybody else, he might have protested. "Have you considered the possibility of there not being anything there to cover up? The Typhoon might be a perfectly legitimate operation."

"We've considered that, yes," Harry informed her. "Tony mentioned that Malfoy has gambling debts that happen to be through the roof, so the Typhoon may just be a way of covering their bums, but…" He sighed and chewed as he considered how to word his next statement. "There's just something odd about the way the Davenports and their agent Simon Bates act to the team in general. I have reason to believe that there's not a 'spy,' for lack of a better term, in the team itself—but those three just make me suspicious."

"Plus," Ginny piped up, "I've done some extensive background checks on the entire team. Other than a few misdemeanours—some standard 'Flooing While Intoxicated' and underage magic notices, a case or two of Billywig Sting addiction—there's nothing there that suggests any of them might be spying. All are financially sound, and were apparently surprised when they were picked for the Typhoon. In fact, the only one that's exhibited anything that suggests he might be a spy is Harry himself."

Ron grinned at that. "Well, Harry, now's your chance to come clean. Just admit you didn't mean it, and we'll forgive you and forget this ever happened."

"Didn't mean it? Are you kidding? It was worth every Galleon." Harry hid a smile behind his goblet. "Ginny and I have gone over it from every angle, and it really seems that there _is_ something shady about the Typhoon."

"Just wish we knew what," Hermione muttered emphatically. "Maybe if I checked in the library at work—"

"No!" Ginny, Harry, and Ron all said at once. Hermione looked a little bewildered and a little more hurt, but Ron was quick to follow up with, "You're working yourself into the ground already. We don't a repeat of third year, do we?" Not really caring that Harry and Ginny were watching, he rubbed her shoulder. "All we all ever do is work around here. Let's take a break. Why don't we stop talking about the Davenports and Malfoy and all during dinner?"

That idea seemed to go over well. "All right," said Harry agreeably. He immediately launched into a story from practice that day, about a running bet between Beater Tad Greeley and Chaser Stacy Harrows.

Ginny joined in before long. "It looks like there might be love on the Pitch," she sighed dramatically. "We're all headed to the American Quidditch Open in a couple of months, since the Typhoon isn't able to join the official league until the season begins in September. They're trying to get Tracy and Bear together, so Bear has to ask her out if they win two games. They would make an adorable couple, don't you think?"

"I always thought Bear liked Mel," Harry told her, shrugging. "But if he likes Stacy, that makes so much more sense."

Hermione tilted her head to the side. "Tracy." At Harry's confused look, she explained, "Ginny said Tracy. How closely were you listening to her?" She received her answer when Harry stuttered something out and flushed a bit. Ron narrowed his eyes at Harry and Ginny. This situation was going to take some getting used to. Would he had to assign Ginny another bodyguard? No, he decided after a minute. He didn't need that headache.

Why did he feel like everything was starting to happen right under his nose?

"Picking on your brother like that last night was just mean," Harry warned Ginny as they walked into the headquarters for the Nottingham Typhoon together the next day. It was just after the morning practice, so Harry was freshly showered, and Ginny was a bit sunburned. They both had a sheaf of paperwork to drop off before they headed about the respective days. This would probably be the best time they would have to talk until dinner. "And was it just me, or were they practically Banishing us to the door when we were getting ready to leave?"

Ginny giggled. "As much as I don't want to think about it, that was probably the first night they'd had alone in quite some time."

"Then why did they invite us to dinner? They should have eaten dinner by themselves if they haven't seen each other lately!" Harry shook his head and pulled at the sleeve of his new shirt. He had some business to attend to in the Muggle world, on behalf of Fred and George, so he was dressed in a pair of khakis and a moderately nice button-up green shirt. Ginny, in her work robes, looked a bit overdressed when walking next to him, but she didn't mind. "Insane, both of them."

Thinking about it brought a thoughtful frown to Ginny's face. "Hey, did you notice that Hermione seemed a bit quieter than usual last night?"

Harry held open the door to the main offices for her. "She's facing a promotion at work, and I think the stress of being a high-class Unspeakable and one of the top members of the You-Know-What is finally starting to get to her. If this keeps up, I'm going to force Ron to take her to Tahiti to get away from it all."

"Aw, what a nice friend." Ginny snickered behind her hand at his annoyed look. "Let's face it, though. Ron would never accept your money."

"He would if I threatened to hog-tie him to a Hippogryff."

"Ah, good! Miss Mason! Mr. Potter!" Both froze in their footsteps at the voice that rang out behind them. It belonged to Ulysses Davenport, and he sounded genuinely happy about something—never a good sign. Harry counted backwards from five in his head and slowly turned, keeping a hand on Ginny's arm to hold her in place until he could assess the situation. What he saw behind him made him want to groan, and then panic.

"Ginny—Malfoy's back there, and he'll recognise you, even with your disguise. Get out of here—I'll cover for you." Without a word of protest, she nodded and headed towards the door. Harry headed back to Ulysses and Malfoy, a forced grin in place. "Sorry, Mr. Davenport. Amy's late for an important meeting with a client of her independent business."

It was the first time he had come face to face with Draco Malfoy in some time. Although connections sometimes forced them to frequent the same parties, the two had a natural inclination to avoid each other—unless Malfoy wanted to pick a fight. But he rarely did that unless Ron was with Harry. Now Harry was less than pleased to find himself standing only four feet away from his old rival.

"Mr. Malfoy, I believe you know Harry Potter," Ulysses said magnanimously, as though he was doing both men a wonderfully large favour by reintroducing them to each other. "Potter, my associate, Draco Malfoy."

Harry kept his nod curt without actually looking at Malfoy. "Malfoy and I attended Hogwarts in the same year, sir."

The lazy drawl he was waiting for never came. Malfoy just nodded as curtly as he had a minute ago and looked questioningly at Ulysses. He apparently had no desire to talk to Harry—which, in Harry's opinion, was a fantastically good thing. Quickly, the Seeker excused himself and nearly bolted for the office. As he entered, somebody snatched a handful of his shirt and he was yanked sideways into Dave Davenport's private office. He didn't mind the lack of space so much when it brought him toe-to-toe with Ginny.

"That was quick!" she observed. "Are you sure that was Malfoy?"

Harry frowned. "It certainly looked like him." Quickly, he relayed the scene to her: Malfoy's bored look, his nod, his apparent desire not to talk to Harry. "He should have been jumping at the opportunity to pull off at least a few poisonous barbs!"

"What do you think? Polyjuice?"

But now, Harry shook his head and played with her hands. "I'm not sure. It's likely—but _why_?"

Ginny sighed and sat on the edge of the desk, looking down at their linked fingers. "Maybe he just wanted to look credible in front of Ulysses. It's entirely possible that he's matured, you know." She held a straight face for a long moment, and then both burst into incredulous laughter.

The sound of a throat clearing made both of them look over guiltily, but it was just Bear, leaning against the door jamb and grinning smugly. "You know," he advised, looking from Harry to Ginny, "if you step in for a quickie, it might be smarter to shut the door."

"But that would have kept the possibility of an orgy out," Harry said with a perfectly straight face.

"Did somebody say orgy?" Tad Gideon stuck his head in and pretended to look disappointed by the fact that everybody in the room was completely clothed. "We're all going out for lunch. You two coming?" He looked questioningly at Harry and Ginny; the rest of the team had, after the Dublin Demented game, just assumed that they were a couple and wouldn't be seen without the other. Even though it was true, it worked out extremely well for Harry's orders from the Tunnel.

"Lunch sounds nice," Ginny decided for the pair of them. "Where are we going?"

Tad rattled off something in French, inspiring Harry to lift an eyebrow and shrug. He didn't have anything against French food, but he really had to wonder if the restaurant was even in the same country. His teammates were crazy enough to travel to Bulgaria if it meant a good meal. "Write down the coordinates and we'll meet you there in five minutes?"

Bear and Tad left them alone after a minute with the coordinates for the restaurant. Harry sighed and rested his head on Ginny's shoulder, smiling at her laughter. Despite the fact that they lived together, both had been in a flurry of action since the Dublin Demented game. Their entire relationship consisted of a few stolen kisses and one late-night snogging session that had been unexpectedly broken up by the twins' return from Argentina (luckily, Fred and George had been too tired from a case of sunstroke and transcontinental portkeying, and hadn't noticed anything unusual about Harry and Ginny). Although the team knew, they had agreed to keep it from Ginny's family for at least a little while—long enough for a little of the steam over Fred's upcoming marriage to blow over.

Things might have been uncomfortable if either of the two were more outgoing with their feelings. But it happened that both Ginny and Harry had seen a lot in their short lifetimes. They had survived more than most would ever see in a 90-minute action flick, and as a result, both had learned the hard way to occasionally take a step back and let life happen once in awhile. And life had guided them both to each other. Both had been heartily surprised to find that, somehow, although they went through the first awkward stages of a relationship together, they just seemed to fit together.

"Do we have to go to lunch?" Harry wondered now, still leaning against Ginny. "I could easily not move for the rest of the day."

His breath against her neck made her giggle a bit. "Oh, come now, you enjoy these meetings with your teammates. Besides, we promised." Ginny moved to push him away from her and stand up, but he had seen this coming and instead pulled against her so that she was off-balance. By the time she regained any sort of orientation, he swept in and kissed her.

It took some time before they were able to coherently think about lunch. A bit pink in the face and grinning, they headed out of the tiny office and were just about to Disapparate from the spot when a throat cleared behind them. Ron strode up before they could turn. "Caught you still at the office," he said, relieved, as Harry and Ginny froze and immediately tried not to act guilty. It didn't work very well, but Ron was in such high spirits that he didn't notice. "I found you a third member for the Typhoon case."

"Ron, what are you doing here?" Ginny hissed at him. "Are you _trying_ to blow our cover?"

"Bloke's got a right to see where his best mate works!" Ron smirked at her exasperated expression. "Be on the lookout for Euan Abercrombie. I met with him this morning—he spent last summer and up 'til now working for the Department of Magical Games and Sports, so he's a shoe-in for the job opening on the information staff for the Nottingham Quidditch Pitch."

"There was a job opening?" Harry repeated stupidly, wondering why Ron knew more about the place than he did.

"Of course. With him on the team, we should have plenty of eyes and ears on the case. He should be around here starting next week sometime. Maybe one of you could contact him and meet with him over dinner sometime?"

"Sure." Ginny shrugged. "Want to join us for lunch? We're headed off to eat with the team."

Ron inclined his head. "As much fun as a table full of Quidditch superstars would be, I'm afraid that I have to meet with Terrence Holicrest in about twenty minutes, so I guess I have to turn you down." He gave them a jaunty wave and disappeared from the spot without any further warning. Harry and Ginny stared after him for a full minute.

"Did he seem…happier than normal to you?" Ginny asked slowly.

"Like he—"

"You know what? This is my brother we're talking about. I don't want to think about that. Sorry I brought it up." Ginny looked so squeamish that Harry barked out a short note of laughter.

Harry got his second surprise visit from an old classmate later that night, just as a storm had closed in over London's sky and was threatening to tear the Hutch wall from wall. Ginny was in Ron's room—although it was more or less hers now—working on something for Angelina's wedding. It had been a quiet evening for the pair of them, but neither minded terribly. Sometimes, she holed herself up in there without a word. Harry more than understood the need to get away from humanity once in awhile.

He himself was once again staring at credit reports and bank statements of the various people they thought to be involved in the Typhoon Scandal. Something didn't match up. If Malfoy was as poor as Tony had claimed he was, how on earth could he afford to endorse a Quidditch team? Did they have yet another, more invisible creditor somewhere that was staring him in the face? What on earth did they all have to hide? His thoughts were so heavily invested in this that the booming thunder of somebody knocking on the front door made him jump quite spectacularly.

Ginny appeared at her bedroom door clad in a bathrobe, her hair damp. "Who on earth could be visiting at this hour? Or in this weather, come to think of it?"

"I dunno." Harry snatched up his wand from the coffee table and motioned for her to go back into the room. Rolling her eyes, she obliged. Harry, on the other hand, crept to the front door. Just as he reached it, the knocking sounded again, this time more frantically than the last.

"Oi, Ron! Harry!" None other than Neville Longbottom's voice drifted through the front door to Harry now. "Please, somebody, be home!"

Harry yanked open the door and gaped. Indeed, there stood his old roommate, looking miserable and soaked through. Water dripped off of Neville's nose as he looked at Harry in surprise. "You're home!"

"What—did you decide to go swimming in the Thames?" Harry quickly ushered his old schoolmate inside and locked the door behind him. Although it was nearing summer, the storm had quickly bought a chill to the evening. Harry waved his wand at Neville's clothing and immediately the other man was dry. "Merlin, Neville, what happened?" It was only then that it registered with him: Neville was clutching a damp rucksack and a battered suitcase. "Did something happen with Charity?"

Now dry and miserable, Neville nodded. "She kicked me out. The divorce paperwork came through today. I was wondering if I could kip here for a bit—only until I get my feet back. Ruddy ex-wives and their stealing your own home out from under your own nose." For a minute, he looked downright furious.

The Hutch had served as a doghouse before. "Sure," Harry relented graciously. "Stay here as long as you like. Come in, come in."

Neville looked pained and grateful at the same time. "Thanks, Harry. You have no idea how much you're helping right now."

"Always glad to." Sensing that his night was just going to get longer, Harry disappeared into the kitchen and flicked his wand at the tea kettle. He hurried into the living room as Neville sat gingerly on the sofa. "So it's finally quits with Charity, huh?"

Neville had, three years earlier, surprised everybody by proposing to spell-crafting witch Charity Rosenthal out of the blue. He was the first of their little circle of friends (although the circle halved itself after Hogwarts with Ginny taking off to a career in Prague and Luna headed to the Caspian Sea to create a documentary on the sirens that lined its shores) to get married, and they had thought that he would be the first parent of their little clique. However, his marriage with Charity had not been a happy one. As one of the leading herbologists, Neville worked long hours. He didn't complain much, but Harry and Ron had occasionally met him at a pub to talk about life, and Neville usually didn't have much to say about his marriage. It hadn't taken a genius—only Hermione—to figure out that Neville's married life was less than happy.

"Papers are signed, assets divided," Neville sighed, helping himself to a glass of sherry from the Quaffle decanter. "She got the house, the owl, and most of our stocks in the wizarding exchange. I got the rest of the stocks and the heartache." Sighing, he tilted his head back and downed the entire glass. Harry sympathetically left the room to retrieve the bottle of clear liquid he kept beneath the sink. When he returned, it was to find Neville staring at Ginny in shock. The herbologist quickly looked from Harry to Ginny and back again before dropping his gaze and blushing. "I'm sorry—I didn't know I was interrupting anything."

"You weren't," Ginny told him pertly, standing on her tiptoes to give him a hug. "Harry and I are dating, but I'm staying in Ron's room until I can find a place on my own."

"Oh. All right, then." Still, Neville looked awkwardly between the pair of them until Harry handed him a cup of tea laced with the alcohol. Ginny poured a bit of milk into her tea, but she waved the offer of alcohol off. "You don't mind the loss of your couch or the invasion of your privacy, right?"

"It's perfectly fine," Harry assured. "You can stay in my room. I'm more than comfortable on the couch, anyway."

Stammering, Neville insisted that he couldn't do that, but Harry was adamant. The herbologist took his tea and headed off to bed early, leaving Harry and Ginny to clean up. They were silent as they cleaned, each still wrapped in his or her own thoughts. Neville staying with them somehow cemented their cover story of being flatmates, but it did throw a wrench into the gears of their relationship. Harry half-wondered if Neville had tried to stay with Hermione first, and had been thrown out by Ron. That was probably the case. Neville was a Tunnel member, but his job kept him from doing serious field-work. He was all but oblivious to Ron and Hermione's parts in the organisation.

"You're really going to sleep on the couch?" Ginny asked, breaking the silence first.

Harry looked down at the sofa, a purchase he'd made at a rummage sale. It fit well with the rest of the house, and it was comfortable, so he didn't see a problem with it. "What's wrong with it? I like my couch."

"Oh. You were serious about that?"

Harry stared at her for a long time, wondering just what she meant by that. When it finally hit him, he felt like a bit of a fool. Either way, he burst out laughing and had to sit down before too long. Ginny shot him a puzzled look, but he waved her off. "That wasn't a ploy to get you into bed or anything, no."

Ginny threw her dish towel at him, and he snatched it out of the air. "Somehow, the fact that you're laughing about getting into bed with me just doesn't make me feel real loved, Harry."

Now, Harry belatedly tried to stifle his laughter, with little success. Ginny continued to give him a look that was somewhere between a glare and a glower. "Look, Gin," Harry said, moving closer to her slowly, testing the waters. "Remember how we talked about me being a guy and saying stupid stuff? Well, you can chalk that moment up on that list I know you're keeping in your head." He gave her his most charming grin, one he normally reserved for getting out of a Tunnel assignment (even though Hermione had proved years before that this smile had no effect on her).

Her resolve was melting, she was sure of it. After years of building up her defences against him, all he still had to do was flash those pearly whites and fix that bright gaze on her, and she was putty. Still, she sighed and narrowed her eyes at him. "Would you quit talking? I want to stay mad at you!"

"Sorry."

"Sure you're not." But she shook her head and finally allowed a smile to break through. "But is it honestly so revolting?"

He looked up from the dishes that he had just returned to, eyebrows raised. "Is what so revolting?"

Suddenly, it was a lot harder to get the words out. She mentally scolded herself—it was just Harry, after all—but none of the self-deprecating remarks held any effect on the willingness of her tongue to move over the next words. Her blush was quite spectacular. "Getting into bed with me. You know."

"Revolting is the last word I'd use," Harry said so honestly that even Ginny at her most paranoid would believe him. "However, the timing isn't right. For one thing, I'm in all technicalities your bodyguard until we fix the Dermot situation. If sleeping together would have a strain on our relationship—and I'm not saying that's necessarily the case—then I don't know what we would do. On top of that, we work together. And I know that your brothers may not be the strictest lot in our world, but that doesn't keep me from believing for even one second that they won't descend on me like a ton of Bludgers if I sleep with their precious sister." He smiled and playfully tweaked her nose, leaving soap bubbles frosted there. "I have a lot to live for—I'd rather not spend my last day being tarred, feathered, and pierced in any way whatsoever by slivers of bamboo."

She was close to gaping, and she knew it. Hurriedly, she firmed her jaw to keep it from falling open. "So when just when did you make the transition from terrible teen to perfect man, again?"

"I just try not to grunt like a caveman around you too much, that's all," Harry said modestly, scratching the back of his neck. To complete the picture of modesty, he rinsed out the sink, set the dish-towel carefully on the divider and held out his arm to her. Just as Ginny slipped underneath, a loud bang! from the back of the Hutch startled both into actions. Wands materialised in hands and Harry took point, running full-force through the apartment.

They found Neville seated in the hallway, rubbing the back of his head and looking a little dizzy. "Er—sorry," he said hastily as Ginny and Harry raced onto the scene. "I hit, um, this vase." He swept his hand out to indicate the vase, which was now in about forty pieces on the carpet. Harry sighed to himself and cast a quick _Reparo_. "I'm sorry, guys. I didn't mean to wake you—"

"Oh, nonsense." Ginny helped Neville to his feet as Harry collected the vase stand and the vase. Neville didn't notice that both Ginny were breathing harder than necessary and flicking uncertain glances at every entrance point, wands still out. "We were just cleaning up. I'll get Harry to move the vase—it's in a very troublesome spot, anyway."

"Hey, don't look at me, mate," Harry muttered under his breath to Neville as Ginny hurried off, presumably to check and make sure the house was secured—just in case. "I don't even remember having a vase. Must've been Hermione's addition."

Neville snorted. "Women."


	7. Peridot in Paradise

A/N: I want to thank Shalli, whose review threw me for a loop for a minute. After googling both "'strine" and "stone the flaming crows," the loop got smaller. But it was fun. Thanks, Shalli. I suppose the bit about 'bird' was a guilty pleasure—I've been watching too many movies from the forties (although I will point out that they say "bird" in _Love Actually_). I apologise now--this chapter is mostly conversation, but it's all stuff that needs to move the plot along. I also apologise for the wait…

Chapter Seven: Peridot in Paradise

Contrary to Harry's instinctual reaction to Neville's moving in to the Hutch, the living arrangement wasn't at all awkward, although having a third flatmate—especially a clumsy one—kept Ginny and Harry on their toes. Neville was often gone at work for days, coming home late at night to collapse onto his bed, only to rise up early the next morning and head out. Harry lived on a similar schedule, for Dave Davenport had the Typhoon practising at random hours to keep each team member ready for anything, rather like Mad-Eye Moody might. Only Ginny seemed to have somewhat of a normal schedule, but she was so busy with preparations for Angelina's wedding and the American Quidditch Open that it sometimes seemed that she was gone more than either of the men.

On the Tuesday following Neville's addition to the Hutch, Ginny and Harry met with Euan Abercrombie, a tall, lanky fellow with a thatch of sandy-blond hair and an Irish brogue thicker than Hagrid's old mead. The only word that Harry could possibly think of describing him with was "eager," for Euan gave off the impression of a rabbit on its haunches, just waiting to run and start up on the next task. Not sure what to do with a third person on the team, Harry assigned him to surveillance over the suspects' activities while in the stadium. Meanwhile, Harry and Ginny both lost a lot of sleep poring over bank statements, social calendars, and even a few gossip magazines.

"I wish we could just ask Tony for help on this one," Harry grumbled after a long night of doing just that. He pushed both of his hands up to the top of his scalp and expelled a hard breath. "Malfoy gambles, Dave and Ulysses lost a lot of money when Voldemort fell, Sam Werner's almost too old to say his own name properly…It doesn't add up that they could all be involved in some nefarious scandal!"

"Did you really just say 'nefarious?'" Ginny asked blearily behind her own mountain of parchment. She pushed the entire monolith away and pulled at a strand of hair, trying to focus. "Look, maybe we should get a new perspective on this. A fresh look."

The idea held some merit. "Ron and Hermione are too busy with that Fizzing Whizzbee scandal to devote any more time to this project. Hell's bells, _we _should be too busy with the Dermot assignment to be doing this." It was driving him to his last nerve, waiting for Dermot to come out of the woodwork. Although he logically knew that Dermot had followed his normal MO concerning Ginny and had backed off for a few months, just the thought of that man existing to possibly walk down the same streets they did…well, it made Harry quite edgy.

"What about Euan and Terrence?"

"Terrence?"

"Oh, he's Euan's best mate, another Tunnel recruit. We could stick him on this case with Euan since Euan's already playing a big role," Ginny suggested, shuffling parchment about. She picked up a piece, dropped it again, and pushed her right hand into her forehead. "Let them puzzle it out for a few days while I get the bulk of Angelina's wedding planned and you finish our big plans for the Quidditch Open. Sound good?"

It sounded more than wonderful. For the first time that night, Harry allowed himself to lean back in his chair. Maybe he and Ginny could finally have some thinking time that wasn't involved in how much Malfoy spent on the twelfth or where the Davenports shopped for their wine. "That sounds great."

"Excellent. I'll inform Hermione, Terrence, and Euan in the morning." Ginny closed the parchment folder with a snap, nearly making Harry jump. "But for now, we're calling it a night. And you're not sleeping on the couch again."

"It's fine," Harry grumbled, not wanting to beat this dead horse anymore than it was already beaten. They'd been arguing over Harry's sleeping arrangements all week. "I got that crick in my neck from straining the wrong way to catch the Snitch the other day, not from sleeping on the couch."

"Uh-uh, I don't think so," Ginny said just as Neville entered, holding a styrofoam cup of steaming liquid and looking wan. "Feeling okay there, Neville? You're looking a bit peaky."

Neville set the cup down and removed his cloak, revealing tattered robes over his denim pants. "I'm fine, Gin. The Brazilian Water Dragons decided that today was a good day to throw a revolution, that's all. I had half the staff trying to calm them, and the other half trying to harvest Mandrakes. Unfortunately, we had to do both today because the Minister of Herbology is coming to inspect tomorrow, and if we wait another day on the Mandrakes, I'm afraid we won't be able to make a proper revival potion out of them." He sighed wearily and took a long drag from the cup. "Would've been seven months of work, right down the drain."

"Get it done all right, Neville?" Harry asked, rising and crossing to the coffee pot, which looked tired from all of the use he and Ginny had put it through all week. It burbled when he tapped it with his wand but set about making coffee with a defeated air.

"Yes, it's all done. Unfortunately, it was hideous timing."

"Was it?" Ginny wanted to know. "Why's that? Tuesdays not good for a Water Dragons revolt?"

Neville managed to make a noise that vaguely resembled a weak chuckle. "Well, the Minister of Magic's just gone and gave his yearly speech on the wizarding economic state, hasn't he? Worst day a fiasco can happen is right after that speech because then everybody'll start wanting a raise!"

"Wow, good point," said Harry, who'd never known that the Minister gave a yearly speech on the economy. "Very astute business observation there, Neville. You've got a good head for business."

"I just wish it could get me _ahead_ in the business world. Running an apothecary is no small task." Neville let out another gusty sigh and stood up to fill the now empty cup with coffee. "Oh, well. If wishes were broomsticks, beggars would ride, I suppose." He leaned over Harry's shoulder to get a good look at the credit reports. "Merlin, these things are a mess. I'm not good with numbers, but even I can tell that something is seriously wonky there. Say, would you like me to look over these for you? You know, in exchange for me stealing your bed?"

"Would you?" Ginny asked quickly before Harry could protest. "They're not ours, but we're working on them for a Tunnel case. If you could just figure out where all the money's coming from, where it's going to—we'd be forever grateful."

Neville smiled tiredly and collected the papers in front of Harry. "Sure. Be glad to help out the Tunnel. Been awhile." He shoved the parchments under his arm and toasted them with his coffee. "I'll take a look at them tomorrow. However, right now, I'm completely knackered. I'm off to kip a bit before my next shift starts." He turned to leave as Harry and Ginny bid him good-night. "Oh, right, before I forget. Harry—don't change your sleeping arrangements because I'm here. If you want to, um, you know," and his eyes darted once towards Ginny, "I really think you should."

"Goodnight, Neville," Harry said pointedly, wondering how his ears could burn so hotly. Things were the opposite of awkward around Ginny, but somehow when Neville brought the fact up to light, it always made Harry want to squirm guiltily in his seat. He and Ginny hadn't even told Ron and Hermione, their closest friends, that they were sort of going steady, as the term went. Living together made it easier and harder at the same time, and the fact that he was her bodyguard just kept getting in the way of everything. There was a protocol to be followed, a conscientious line to be walked.

"So," Ginny said, turning to face him with a smug look, "guess that means you're sleeping with me, doesn't it? You don't want to offend Neville now, do you?"

"And just how much did you pay him to bring that up, again?"

"There are other ways besides money to get what you want, Mr. Potter." Giggling, Ginny took advantage of his shocked look to lean in and kiss him, slowly enough to deliberately drive him mad. She pulled back, a feline smirk in place. "Grab your pillow and meet me in my room in two minutes. If you're not there by then, Neville's going to be very upset with the both of us."

"How come this is my house, and yet I'm the only one that doesn't get a say?" Harry wondered at the ceiling.

* * *

Ginny looked up as a slew of swearing entered her office, seconds before Tara Staples herself stepped in with all of her glorified blonde comparisons to Aphrodite in place. The perfect goddess image wasn't even marred by the fact that Tara was currently cursing hard enough to make a sailor—on leave—blush.

"Something wrong, Tara?" Ginny asked, moving the file for reservations off to the side and raising her eyebrows. "You look a bit upset."

"Upset, she says!" Tara grumbled to an imaginary person behind Ginny. "Like it's nothing!"

Ginny sat back and tapped the tip of her quill against a map of the stadium hosting the American Quidditch Open. Harry had owled it over earlier. "Like what's nothing?"

"Weasley, do you even bother to readthe British newspapers, much less the American ones?" Before Ginny could shake her head, Tara plunked a newspaper down on her desk hard enough to disturb the bottle of ink Ginny had sitting off to the side. That made the blonde Southerner let out an annoyed yell and flick her wand at it to clean it up. "Check it out, our favourite psychotic killer is at it again."

'**WITCH HUNTER STRIKES IN BOSTON!**' read the headline in stark lettering, tracing its way across the page and into Ginny's fears. She skipped the by-line and the photograph of the author to read the bulk of the article. Dermot had indeed struck again, killing a twenty-nine-year-old in Boston, Massachusetts. Ginny stared at the article for a long time without fathoming what it actually meant. Dermot was in Boston? He was originally from Seattle, and a bit nomadic on top of that, but his recent targets all had something to do with her. Did she know anybody in Boston? He'd stayed in Alabama to cause more trouble around people that she had met fleetingly.

"What's in Boston?" she asked, folding the newspaper carefully with shaking hands.

"My sister! My sister's in Boston, that's what!" Annoyed, Tara slammed a fist into the wall. Most people would have been unnerved by the pain, but she just stuffed her hand into a pocket. Ginny winced; she'd be feeling that later. "If that little cretin goes near—I've got to go back there. I've got to leave here, I've gotta go there right now—"

"What?!"

"I'm moving back to Boston. I'll move into Denise's place, stay on her couch. Denise is exactly why Dermot is in Boston, and by God, he's NOT getting her." Tara began to pace around the room, her footsteps a flurry of movement that made Ginny dizzy to watch. The redhead continued to sit back in her chair, quietly absorbing the article's news. So Dermot had indeed left her alone—but he was now on the loose, and killing more women. Guilt like none other seized her by the throat. If only she'd thought to Stun him when he'd surprised her…none of this would be happening…

"Stop it," Tara said suddenly.

Ginny jumped. "What?"

Tara crossed the few feet of space between them and leaned far over the desk so that she was directly in Ginny's face. "That blaming yourself thing. Stop it right now."

Ginny pushed her head against the back of the seat, a sigh rocking her entire form. "I can't exactly help it, you know."

"Yes, you can. You were a victim, too. And a darn good one because you were able to tell us who the Witch Hunter was. Now, stop blaming yourself for that woman that was killed, and get your things. We've got to pack up the apartment."

"Right." Ginny pushed her hair out of her face and began to shuffle parchment into file folders. She began to shove them into her satchel, mind a blur of confusing thoughts. "Right. I'll let Harry know. C'mon." She slung the satchel over her shoulder, grabbed her summer cloak, and headed for the locker rooms. The team was probably in there, listening to Bear going over plays. Although Dave Davenport was the coach, Bear had been named captain after the Dublin Demented game. The team unofficially agreed that he was devising their plays, and that they would listen to him. "He should be down this way."

They left the administrative offices through the concrete corridor that wound underneath the length of the stadium. Although Ginny had never had a problem with tight enclosed spaces, Tara was noticeably tensed as they walked. Ginny wasn't sure if it was the fact that Dermot was in the same city as her beloved sister, or if it was the walls pressing in tightly all around them. "The locker rooms are down at the end of this hall. You okay?"

"I'm fine," Tara replied immediately, pulling her hair back into a knot. "This way, right?"

"Right," Ginny said again. They made a sharp right, ducked under a set of pipes, and arrived at a door bearing the words "AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY" on a large blue and red sign. "This is it. The Typhoon locker room." She knocked four times on the door, and after a minute (and some scuffling inside), Tracy opened the door and grinned. She didn't look surprised to see Ginny at all.

"Amy! We haven't seen you in three days—well, except for Harry, of course! Come in, come in!" Tracy smiled broadly at Tara and grabbed Ginny by the arm, pulling her inside. Left with no other option, Tara followed. "Hey, everybody! Amy's here and she brought a friend!" She glanced questioningly at Tara, silently asking her name.

"It's Tara," Ginny supplied, for Tara looked a bit dazed the movement all around her. "We came to steal Harry for a minute, if that's okay with—" She came to an abrupt halt at the sight before her.

Bear was perched on his toes on the bench, wearing a pair of blue boxers and a T-shirt with the words "Appleby Arrows" splayed across the front. Dressed similarly in various other Quidditch shirts, Frank, Tad, and Harry were all balanced on their own benches, arms windmilling about. At the sight of Ginny, Harry slipped off the bench and barely caught himself with the edge of the locker. By laughing, Bear and Tad inadvertently mimicked his actions.

"Frank wins!" Stacy crowed, holding up a sheet of parchment. "And here is my marker, Mel—looks like I win again! I told you Frank had the best natural balance!"

Harry laughed and slapped Frank on the back—sending him to the floor with the rest of the team. "Hey, Amy," he said, giving Ginny a kiss on the temple. At the sight of Tara, he froze. Any playfulness in his manner disappeared, although his teammates were too busy congratulating Frank to notice that the look in Harry's eyes had quickly gone hard. "And…Tara…what are you doing here?"

"That's why we need to steal you, _dear_," Ginny said, using their code-word to signal the urgency of the situation. She turned to the rest of the team, her smile normal. "If the rest of you will excuse us? My sister wants to meet my boyfriend, if that's okay."

"Boyfriend," Tad sniggered like a twelve-year-old, but the team let them go.

They assembled in the narrowest corner of the outside corridor, much to Tara's dismay. However, she swallowed her problem long enough to face Harry, and to hand the newspaper over to him. He paled as he skimmed the article. When he was done, he crumpled it in one fist. "We have to go now."

"What?" Ginny and Tara asked on the same breath.

"To Boston. We end this _now_." Harry started to stride off, boxers and all, but Ginny grabbed his arm and hauled on it just in time, keeping him in place. "This has gone on long enough. Let's call Dermot out now."

Tara shook her head. "It doesn't work that way. Dermot plans public showdowns on his own terms. If we try to draw him out, it just won't work. This may have been a 'come and get me' message, but Dermot's smarter than that. He'll be waiting on his own turf."

"Which is why," Ginny added pointedly, forcing Harry to meet her gaze, "we're tricking him at the American Quidditch Open. Until then, our hands are tied."

Harry looked resigned. "Okay, then what—"

"Tara is going to Boston to protect her sister, who lives there," Ginny filled him in. Harry broke in to give his true opinion of Dermot in a word that would have made Hermione gasp. Ginny, who had heard much worse in the past, just shook her head and sighed. "We're headed off to pack up our flat so that she can go today."

"Take Euan with you," Harry said immediately, looking between them. "To Boston."

"Take Euan to _Boston_?" Tara echoed. "I can't just move Euan across—"

"Somebody say my name?" As though summoned by magic, Euan Abercrombie himself appeared, his easy smile in place. Ginny rather liked him for that smile; the guy didn't have the easiest life, she knew, but he usually found a reason to grin, even if it was a reason nobody else could understand. His unfailing optimism had already started to infect Harry, although the Seeker would never admit it. "Oh, good, you're both here," he said to Harry and Ginny now. "Listen, have you checked the papers this morning?"

After some debate, they had agreed to let Euan know the specifics involving Dermot, Ginny, and Tara. It helped ease Ron's conscience that he wasn't devoting as much time as he could to the case, and Euan offered some fresh views of Harry and Ginny's plan to draw Dermot out at the American Quidditch Open. Also, having a second person assigned to security for the event made Harry a little less edgy about the whole ordeal.

Now, Harry just held up the fistful of newspaper. Evan cringed. "Right," he continued. "Guess you did. Er, not to be ignorant or anything, but why is the Witch Hunter attacking in Boston? It just…doesn't seem right. I"ve been reading up on his activities over the years and while everything with, er, Amy is out of character for him, this is just…baffling."

"My sister is in Boston," Tara said, white stress lines appearing on either side of her mouth.

Euan glanced at Harry, his mouth open in an O. Harry just nodded. "Pack your things," he told Euan tersely. "You've been promoted to bodyguard. Stay with Tara and her sister in Boston—don't let them out of your sight."

Most might have protested; Euan only nodded and glanced at his watch. Tara opened her mouth to protest, but Euan just shrugged and glanced at Harry, "Give me an hour—I have to go cancel a date."

"You can't just make him drop everything and go!" Tara protested once Euan was out of hearing range.

Harry shrugged and handed the crumpled newspaper back to Ginny. "He doesn't seem to have a problem with it. Give me five minutes, and I'll come help you pack." There was a steely undertone to his voice that told Ginny it would be useless to try and convince him to stay, so the redhead merely pressed her lips together and nodded. As much as this might blow their cover with the Davenports, it was more important to Harry that he be there watching over them right now. She could pick her battles later; she had other things to do right now.

* * *

"Save me a piece of chicken teriyaki," Hermione called from Tara's bedroom, where she was flicking her wand at various boxes and doing most of the packing for them. After a couple of hours, Dave Davenport had owled Harry with the threat that if he didn't get back to the practice, the back-up Seeker was playing in the Quidditch Open, so Harry had called in a favour from Ron and Hermione. Ron had ducked out a few minutes earlier to check up on Scotty, the agent that had been trapped at the bottom of Hogwarts Lake in a safe while the Shrieking Shack collapsed in on Ginny and Harry. Tara and Ginny were in the kitchen, debating who got what item of food.

"Sure thing!" Ginny shouted back, eyeing the mostly full dish of chicken teriyaki that Ron had ordered before he left. Neither Ginny nor Tara were very hungry; Ginny had eaten a large meal earlier, and Tara was almost too sick with worry to eat.

"Luckily, Denise needs a flatmate," Tara said, continuing their conversation as she threw a jar of peanut butter into one of the boxes. "Her old one just moved out, otherwise I'd be crashing on her sofa for a couple of days and then apartment-hunting. It saves me a lot of trouble, at least."

"Does Denise know what's up?" Ginny had met Tara's sister when they had both worked in Alabama; Denise Staples was twenty, two years younger than Tara. She was attending a college in Boston (Ginny always forgot which one), and according to Tara, the tall blonde was a bit of a party animal. It worried Tara a bit that Denise was headed into using drugs. After Denise had graduated from St. Lawrence's Magical Institute, she had gone back to Muggle school and hung out with all Muggles. She hadn't chosen to follow Tara into the Tunnel.

Tara now shook her head tightly. "She just thinks I'm tired of the 'uptight' British and need a place to crash."

"Won't she be in for a shock when she hears your accent," Ginny observed, for Tara's southern drawl had slowly started to pick up a British undertone.

"The whole family will be," Tara said ruefully. "But it's no big deal, right? The instant I step back into Georgia, you'll be able to stand a spoon in my original accent, it's so thick." She managed a shaky grin and handed over a package of Ginny's favourite candies for Ginny to throw in her own box.

Ron knocked on the partially open front door to warn them and then walked in, throwing his wand from hand to hand. "Scotty's going to be fine," he told them when they looked at him expectantly. "Still struggling with some claustrophobia, but he wants back into the Tunnel."

"You're going to let him?"

"I'm cutting back his work-load for his wife' sake." Linda Darrow had been the one to call and let Harry and Ron know that Scotty was about to attempt suicide; she had taken the brunt of Scotty's new state with as much grace as possible, but it was obvious to anybody who talked to her that she did not want Scotty at all involved with the Tunnel. "He's a Broker by day, so I'm putting him on paperwork. Ginny, could you wrangle a couple of good tickets to the Quidditch Open for him? We worked up enough budget to send both Darrows on vacation to Florida."

"Not a problem," Ginny told him, making a mental note to ask Harry about it later. He could afford it, and she knew that Ron was too proud to ask him.

"Great, thanks. Where's Hermione?"

"Packing up the bedroom." Ginny snagged the plate of chicken teriyaki and pushed it into her brother's hands. "Go take this to her. Tara and I have got the kitchen covered."

"We're almost done," Tara decided, craning her neck to look over the short stacks of boxes they had created throughout the last few hours. "A couple more and that should do it. How many are there?"

Ginny counted the boxes with her eyes. "Twelve. That's with the shrunken entertainment centre, your expansive DVD collection, and everything but the kitchen sink."

"Should we take that, too?" Tara asked, attempting humour.

"Nah, leave it for the next poor people. We've already got the bathtub packed. They'll need something to bathe in."

Shrinking the boxes was left to Hermione, who was the only one competent enough to make sure that it got done properly. Ginny set about labelling them with a magic marker, listing the inner contents of the boxes in smaller letters. She'd moved enough to know that this would save time later. They would shrink the boxes, magic them to look like boxes of chocolates or something to fool the airline that Tara would have to travel on, and then stuff them all into one rucksack small enough for Tara to carry with her on the plane. Worried that Dermot would be watching the magical travel stations, Harry had taken the time to book two tickets (first class) on a red-eye flight into JFK International Airport. From there, they would Floo over to a friend of Denise's in Boston.

"How do Muggles do it all, I wonder," Ginny remarked as she finished taping up the boxes. "I mean, mailing all of this to each other would just be a bother, and what would you do without your stuff for the two weeks it takes?"

"I don't know." Tara was now surveying the empty flat with something akin to a frown on her face. "I really liked this place. And I've seen Denise's place. It's not nearly as good as this one."

"Maybe it'll be empty again someday. Then we'll move back in and make it the party flat we were intending to do when we first got it," Ginny offered, knowing it wasn't much comfort. Tara was having to uproot the life she had tentatively set down for herself in London and go back to her home country. It made Ginny want to kill Dermot with her own hands. She saw the look on her friend's face and grabbed her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "Hey, don't worry about it—Denise's going to be fine, we're going to catch Dermot, and we'll be back to being flatmates any day now."

Tara nearly gaped at her. "How is it that you're the one with the stalker and you're comforting _me_? Shouldn't it be the other way around?"

"I have Harry there to protect me. I'm not worried about it." To her surprise, Ginny found out that she wasn't lying. Somehow, the fact that Harry's eyes always darted around a room before they entered, and how he was always nearby watching, just made her feel better. She liked to be independent and self-reliant, but having a second person there to pick up the slack…well, it was nice.

Another knock from the door alerted them to Euan's presence and he walked in, carrying a suitcase. "Marie wasn't too pleased," he told them through a grin, leaning down to give each a kiss on the cheek (they'd learned early on that this was how Euan greeted every woman), "but I've got my schedule cleared for as long as you need me in Boston."

"Thanks, Euan. I'll be ready to go in about ten minutes."

Ron and Hermione emerged from the bedroom, Ron carrying the plate in one hand and holding his other palm open to reveal several sugar-cube-sized boxes. "Bedroom's all packed," Hermione announced. "Guess I should get started on this set, then?" Without waiting for an answer, she dove in.

"Hullo, Euan," Ron greeted. "I'd shake your hand, but as you see…" He shrugged helplessly and began unloading the boxes gently onto the counter. "Tara, Ginny, these need Unbreakable charms put on them so that nothing gets damaged during the flight. Euan, could I have a minute back here, please?" He jerked his head towards the empty bedroom and the two men disappeared that way.

"Is this your pile here, Ginny?" Hermione asked, indicating the thirteen boxes set off to the side.

"Yeah—I'm moving into the Hutch. Officially. I even let Mum know." Ginny winced at that sentence, knowing that her mother was probably opening the owl even now. If she hadn't received the howler by morning, she would know that Molly Weasley had passed out in shock. "Of course, the way I put it, Harry's added on a third bedroom to make room for me. She doesn't know that we're—"

As she clapped her hand over her mouth, Hermione and Tara turned as one, eyebrows raised at her slip. "That you're what?" Tara prompted mischievously, some of her sadness forgotten for the moment. "Living in sin?"

"We're not! We're just, er, sleeping together."

"Riiiiiight."

Hermione elbowed Tara, grinning, and winked.

"It's entirely innocent!" Well, that wasn't _completely_ true, but she really wasn't one to go describe a snogging session in great detail. "Charity's kicked Neville out, so he's staying with us for awhile, and I don't want Harry sleeping on the couch. He's the best Seeker in England, for crying out loud. I don't want to be responsible for giving him back problems. His fans would lynch me."

Hermione instantly sobered. "Charity kicked Neville out? When?"

"Well, he's been staying with us for a week now, but he says the divorce has been finalised, so I think it's been closer to a month and he just got tired of living in a hotel room. Can't blame him—the poor bloke's at his wit's end." She and Neville had kept it from Harry pretty well that Neville had been drinking a little more than necessary. Ginny was trying to help him through the ordeal, but it wasn't easy with Angelina's wedding less than five months away.

Tara looked only vaguely interested in the conversation, but Hermione had gained a distant look in her eye, one that Ginny recognised all too well. Her best friend was plotting something. "You know," Hermione said faintly, her words trailing off, "I think Luna's in town. What luck."

"Luna?" Tara asked just as Ginny demanded, "What?!"

Hermione ignored Ginny. "Luna Lovegood was in Ginny's year at Hogwarts, a Ravenclaw. We all used to call her Loony Lovegood, with good reason. She and Neville had a bit of a thing going before he met Charity…"

"Luna's a great person, but she's as daffy as well…herself!" Ginny had never been able to describe Luna very well, and it showed in her long pause now. Slowly, her gaze turned thoughtful. Hermione's idea held some credibility, although it was laughable at first. "But she _is_ the exact opposite of Charity…she's nice, for one thing, and while she doesn't seem to be all in one piece, Neville really doesn't need to be with somebody bossy, like Charity was. He needs…an equal."

"Are all the men in your lives in this much trouble?" Tara wondered, making Hermione and Ginny giggle.

"How long is Luna in town?" Ginny asked Hermione, intrigued.

"A couple of months. She's on assignment—some imaginary beast going through the dustbins in London." Hermione's smirk was obviously one that she had gleaned from too much time around Ron and Harry. "What say we have tea sometime soon with her, and bring Neville? I'm sure I can think of a last minute excuse out of there, can't you?"

"They really are in trouble," Tara decided just as Ginny began to giggle again.

Ron and Euan chose that moment to come back in as Ginny and Hermione continued to giggle at Tara's demure statement. "Hey," Ron asked, "why aren't those shrunk yet?" He indicated the still-tall stack of boxes in front of the three women.

"Girl talk, Ron. You wouldn't understand."

* * *

When Ginny came back to the Hutch later that night, trying to shake off the exhaustion that always accompanies one involved in any form with an airport, she found the Hutch lit low in only the way candlelight can do. She paused uncertainly on the threshold. "Harry?"

To her disappointment, it was Neville that stuck his head out of the kitchen and around the corner. "He was called away to a practice about two hours ago, but he should be back any minute now."

Ginny dropped her purse on the nearest chair and removed her rain jacket, scowling a bit at the thought of Harry practising out in the stormy weather outside. Tara's flight had nearly been delayed due to the viciousness of the summer storm, and Ginny was of the opinion that her boyfriend did not need to be on a broomstick out in the middle of the maelstrom. "What's with the candles, Neville?"

Neville had taken the time to light several of the tapers Harry kept under his sink, placing them around the table as he finished cooking dinner. One of the surprising things about Neville was that he could indeed cook: he just enjoyed using the herbs, he always said, and that usually meant putting them on chicken or in bread or whatever it took. Ginny wasn't sure whether she was relieved or disappointed to see the table set for three, for the setting was romantic in its own right. Still, Neville was a house guest, and it would be rude to kick him out because she had had very little time alone with her new boyfriend.

"Harry apparently runs this place on Muggle power," Neville informed her as he added oregano to the sauce, "and it went out about thirty minutes ago. Since you really don't want to see me light more than a candle, I left it up to those candles there. It's a wonderful light, isn't it? Kind of makes you want to paint, almost."

Neville had become one of the more sensitive men in her life, Ginny realised as she thought over his observation. Had Charity left him because she worried about his sexual preferences? That might have had something to do with it.

"So we're eating by candlelight tonight," Neville finished as Ginny moved to collect glasses from the cupboard. "Whenever Harry gets home, that is. That coach of his is insane."

"Trust me, I'm not going to disagree." Ginny sneaked around Neville to steal a taste of the sauce, and smiled. Charity really had thrown it all away when she had kicked Neville out. The man was almost a better cook than her mother. "So are we taking turns with dinner now?"

"I thought it was fair, since I've found a flat, but it won't be ready for another month. Adult sharehouse living." Neville brushed a hand through his hair and leaned around Ginny to stir the noodles. "I believe it's your night to cook tomorrow, so should I be expecting takeout or what?"

"I'm not that bad," Ginny protested, dismayed.

Neville just laughed.

The front door opened yet again and Ginny leaned around the corner to see Harry standing in the doorway, a trench coat hugging his thin, drenched frame. Water ran in rivulets down his face and hands, the "Bloody Davenports," he growled at the coat rack, shoving the coat onto it. "Think they own the bloody world, the sodding gits—"

"Harry's home," Ginny informed Neville, stopping Harry's tirade in its tracks. He blinked owlishly at the pair of them through water-spotted spectacles and pushed irritably at his wet locks, which still managed to defy gravity. Ginny smirked at his expression as she walked up to him and planted a coy kiss on his cheek. "Hi, honey. Hard day at work?"

He barely gave her a second look, and Ginny felt a stab of hurt. "Why is the flat dark?"

Neville appeared around the corner. "Electricity went down, so we're eating by candlelight, unless you'd like to perform a trickier charm and get us some real light."

This seemed to relieve Harry's foul mood a bit. "In this state, I'd just bungle it. Candlelight sounds good."

"Good. Go get changed. You look like a drowned owl."

Harry left the pair alone to wander into his room and change into dry clothing. "He's grumpy," Neville remarked, returning to the stove to stir the various pots and pans. "I guess we shouldn't put him on clean-up, then."

"It's been a long day." That much was evident in the way her arms and legs ached, and the fact that there were small weights on each of her eyelids. "We've spent the day arranging for a friend of ours to move back and watch out for her sister."

"Ouch." Neville flicked his wand at the coffee maker. "You sound like you need some. The portkey office always gives me a headache."

Ginny shook her head. "Muggle. Airport. We're sneaking her into the country, you might say. It's even worse than the portkey office."

Neville raised his eyebrows at this, but wisely chose not to ask exactly why her friend needed to be sneaked anywhere. Instead, he just added a couple more spices to the sauce, tasted it again, and nodded to himself. Ginny set the table around the candles, making sure to move any candles near Neville's place mat away. She poured herself a cup of coffee and drank that as she worked. By the time she poured pumpkin juice into the various glasses, Harry entered the kitchen, changed and considerably drier. He dropped a hand on the back of Ginny's neck, rubbing his fingers against her shirt collar, and leaned against the counter.

"Feeling better?" Ginny asked, wrapping her hand around his wrist.

He gave her a half-smile and turned to Neville. "You can cook?"

"Don't look so shocked," Neville admonished, smirking. The expression made him look a little older. "Charity can't cook worth knuts—one of us had to learn. I can make a soufflé that would make a grown man cry—and not because it hurts to eat it. Tonight, we're having rigatoni—my own special sauce."

"Candlelight," Harry observed, as though seeing it for the first time. "Home-cooked Italian food. The nice crockery. Neville, is there something you're not telling me?" When both Ginny and Neville looked at him in confusion, he shrugged and asked, "Are you carrying the torch for Ginny? Because if you are, I should leave and let you two have some alone-time—"

"No!" Ginny and Neville protested on the same breath.

Harry waited a beat—and then burst out laughing. "I'm sorry," he wheezed between chuckles, "your expression—priceless!"

Both Ginny and Neville watched Harry laugh on for a good minute before Neville frowned and turned to Ginny, his eyes thoughtful. "I think he's so tired he's punchy. Give him your coffee."

"Good idea," Ginny agreed, relinquishing the mug.

Harry's mirth had died down by the time they sat around the table, dishing generous portions of Neville's cooking onto their plates. "Wow," Neville commented as they began to dig into the food. "If only the world knew how England's most valuable Quidditch player spend his nights. Home-cooked meals with his girlfriend and random house guests. Harry, I'm afraid you're boring."

"I get that a lot," Harry confessed, smirking behind his pumpkin juice. "And to tell the truth, I don't care. People tend to stare at those parties."

This drew a chuckle from Neville, and he flicked a glance at the ever-present scar above Harry's eyes. "Oh, right. That nasty-looking cut you have on your forehead. I forgot. You got that from what, banging your head against the kitchen counter when you were a baby, right?"

"Something like that, yeah."

Since Voldemort's demise, Harry's friends had purposely lightened their banter with him, joking about the scar on his forehead. They liked to speculate various ways he got it: parents accidentally gave him a pocket-knife, interesting incident with a yak, Botox inversion (this was always Hermione's suggestion, and it puzzled the rest of them). The first joke that Ginny had heard since her return to England had put her on edge, but Harry had just laughed and said, "Something like that, yeah," the same way he just had to Neville. The humour helped him cope with the memories, she realised early on, and his friends were more than willing to accommodate for that humour.

"I don't know," Ginny remarked, "you could have got it just as easily from an end-table."

"I think it was the ice-box door, actually," Neville countered.

"No, the scar's too jagged for that. Maybe the edge of a cupboard door?"

"Maybe."

Meanwhile, Harry leaned back and casually fed himself forkfuls of rigatoni, amused by their exchange. "Dinner and a show," he remarked when Neville and Ginny paused to breathe. "Sorry to interrupt with business, but have you had any time to look over those bank statements, Neville?"

"Better." Neville stood and retrieved his briefcase from the counter. "I did a little investigating for you. Or I had Ron do it. Whichever you prefer to hear." He pulled a thick folder out and passed it to Harry, making sure to keep it away from the candles. "There's a system, kind of archaic, where you can charm a Galleon with a sort of tracking device. Ron has some inside contacts with Gringotts. These are the reports he gave me from the Galleons placed into the vaults of Draco Malfoy, Dave and Ulysses Davenport, and Sam Werner. Anybody else you want me to check out?"

"Just those four," Harry confirmed, opening the folders and flipping through the contents.

Neville in turn passed Ginny another stack of thick folders. "I analysed them on my lunch hour yesterday. Very messy, so it took me awhile to find out what they're hiding."

Harry was the one who saw the conclusion first. "They're investing in a dragon ranch?" he asked, his voice foggy with disbelief.

"Claw, Tooth, and Scale Dragon Home," Neville confirmed just as Ginny found the name on one of the bank statements. "Over four thousand Galleons from each account has gone there. It appears innocent."

"Very few things with this crowd are innocent." Irritable again, Harry flicked his wand at the overhead light and gave the kitchen a brighter ambience. He scanned one of the parchments and then leaned back in his chair, his brow furrowed. "I'll admit. They've got me stumped."

"And here's the part where I give you the interesting news," Neville finished, taking a bite of noodles and talking around that. "Claw, Tooth, and Scale was a dragon home _once_. The main building burned down a few years ago, and ever since then they've lost all funding."

"Reasonable, if you can't even fireproof a building on a dragon ranch," Harry mused. "So are they merely funding this place again, or is this just an elaborate cover?"

"Hey, take a look at this," Ginny said suddenly, leaning forward with one of the parchments in her hand. "Malfoy hasn't sent any money to this dragon ranch whatever. All of his Galleons have been going to genuinely backing the Nottingham Typhoon."

"It's entirely possible that he's just working himself out of a gambling debt," Neville observed, although Harry's face darkened. "I know, the git's a rat, but…well, he did join our side in the end, didn't he?"

"Took a lot of dilly-dallying for him to decide." Harry's tone was frosty.

"As much as I am in loath to agree with Neville's observation, I think he's right. Draco Malfoy was never as conniving as his father was; he usually stuck to stupid little pranks like the Dementor thing in your third year, Harry." Ginny closed the folder, looking troubled. "Even when Umbridge was around, he wasn't anything more than a minion."

The stony look on Harry's face more than closed the subject for the night. He genuinely wanted something that would put Draco Malfoy out of commission and behind bars, where the git couldn't cause any more misery than he already had. He sighed and looked down at the folders he had to review that night before bed. "I'll give Charlie a call tomorrow, see if I can't find out why they picked Claw, Tooth, and Scale as a cover, if there was anything special about it. Thanks for the help, Neville." He stood up. "I'm going to go review these and try to get a few hours of sleep before the bloody Davenports drag me from my dreams again. Good night."

"Good night."

* * *

This game was getting too easy.

He had expected Ginny to be difficult—he enjoyed the challenge of hunting her, watching her every move, trying to stay one step ahead of her—but instead, she had turned out to be rather boring. She continually presented opportunities for him to attack: he could grab her while her Pretty-Boy boyfriend was out on the field. In fact, as much of a bodyguard as the boyfriend was trying to be, he was lousy at it. He kept her on too loose of a leash; she'd gone to the airport with Tara Staples and Euan Abercrombie alone tonight, without any sort of protection at all. If it hadn't been comparable to shooting a deer with a broken leg, he would have nabbed her then.

He knew that she'd put up a fight once he grabbed her, but he wanted something to work up his adrenaline beforehand. She was tough; he would need the edge. She had survived that fall in the Shrieking Shack, barely lived through being impaled on a sharp piece of wood. That boyfriend of hers had chosen the one night to accompany her. Otherwise, she'd already be dead.

This brought a cold, anticipating smile to the man's face, one that made the barkeep glance warily at him. He ignored this and instead finished off his whiskey, slapping that and a few pounds onto the counter to pay for his drink. "Keep the change."

Soon, he thought as he headed into the summery evening, the game would just become boring, and then he would have to up the stakes.

They were going to play by his rules or not at all.

A/N II: Coming up soon: Hermione makes a shocking announcement, Ginny and Harry attend a family dinner--together, and we finally meet Terry Holicrest!


	8. Agate Shatter

_A/N: I warn you that there is nothing good about this chapter. Every character hits a low point in his or her struggle for the actualisation I believe the end of every story should bring, and this chapter brings to the surface many of the issues you brought up with me about Harry being too polished or perfect. In the back of my mind, I was always baffled by this, but then I realised that it shouldn't surprise me—I just haven't brought his issues to the surface. Yet._

_Disclaimer: None of this belongs to me. I own nothing but the characters of Jackson Templeton and Crin Dalmeiier, and they're not even in this story. Well, maybe not._

Chapter Eight: Agate Shatter

He knew something was wrong when he rolled over, and she wasn't there.

Over the past week or so, he had slowly become accustomed to the feeling of sharing a bed. It was so much more intimate than he had imagined; Ginny, he discovered, liked to sleep against things: pillows, stuffed monstrosities, the wall, him. It was nice, but always a bit disorienting to wake up and find out that she had her back pushed into his side. Her hair usually tangled around his arm, she usually had an arm and at least a leg flung over him, making it very difficult to slip away from her and get to his early morning practices. Over the duration of the week, he had come to love that feeling of being half-smothered.

So when his nightmare let him free near four a.m., he was startled to feel a cool draft on his skin, and to see no sight of Ginny in the bed. Quickly, he rolled to his feet and reached for a sweatshirt to put over his old England Quidditch T-shirt. Throwing that on, he emerged from his room into the main room of the Hutch. To his relief, Ginny was seated in the middle of the couch, her back to him. She didn't look up when he came up, but just the tension in her shoulders told him that she knew he was there.

He stopped beside the couch and stared at the mess of paperwork that Ginny had created across every available surface. She had a quill in one hand and was running the soft part through her other hand. She wasn't looking at any of the paperwork, but at her own arm, perhaps counting her freckles.

"Hey," he said softly. "Can't sleep?"

"He's not in Boston." A strained ghost of a smile took over her face for a second. It was gone before too long. "I couldn't sleep."

"I can see that. What are you working on, exactly?" He needed time to think, to piece together why she would believe that Dermot was back in England when he was so clearly terrorising Boston and Tara Staples. And then he needed to build a defence against it, and against his own doubts. There was no way Dermot was taking Ginny from him: ever since that night in the Shrieking Shack, Ginny had become a fixture in his life. He liked having somebody to depend on, and selfishly thought it was wonderful that the person he leaned against didn't have somebody else and would therefore have to lean against him.

"Ron and Hermione's wedding." She leaned forward and shuffled papers around, pulling out a random cream-coloured piece of parchment and thrusting that at him. "Consider that your official invitation. Since you're the best man and I'm the maid-of-honour, we get the sample invitations."

It looked like almost every wedding invitation that he had received by owl over the years, most of them belonging to famous Quidditch stars. It appeared as though Ginny was pulling out all the stops for the wedding. Harry set the invitation aside, making a note to frame it somewhere Ron and Hermione couldn't see. "So the date's official, then?"

"I'm owling everybody with instructions in a few weeks and getting it into gear," Ginny confirmed, moving paperwork around. She let out a prolonged sigh and pushed her fingers into her hair, rocking her body forward with her eyes shut. Harry tentatively put a hand on her shoulder and she looked over at him, something akin to annoyance in her look. "Aren't you going to even ask why I know Dermot is here?"

He winced. "I was trying to figure that out on my own, actually."

"It's okay to ask for help, you know."

"I know that. Old habits die hard." Deciding it was safe, he shifted and wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer to him. It hadn't taken him long to learn that girls like Ginny liked that sort of tactile affection, but with everybody else, it had always unnerved him. Ginny seemed to understand that; she was usually the one that reached for his hand, or gave him a hug. He was still hesitant, but the problem was slowly disappearing. Now, he rested his chin against the top of her head. "Ginny, he's in Boston. That woman was murdered with his MO down to the same brand of spraypaint he used to leave his message on the wall."

"I won't deny that he was there, but he's not there anymore." A tightly coiled wire in Ginny seemed to snap, and she sagged against him. "He was there because he knew Tara's sister lived there. He knows us too well, Harry. He knew that was the one thing that would make her leave me. Her family is more important to her than anything else."

"There's nothing to say he's not still there," Harry pointed out, keeping his grip tight. "Yes, Tara's there with him, but she has Euan there looking out—"

"Dermot's in England, Harry."

There was such a finality in her voice that he tensed and immediately twisted to face her. Urgency made the earlier panic rise threateningly to the surface. He wasn't a foolish man; he liked to think that since Voldemort's fall, he had opened his eyes considerably. He saw enough to know that his excuse for protecting her was so flimsy that Dermot could reach in and snatch her away at any second. Had she seen him? Had he sent another note? Was that why she was so certain about this? "How do you know that?"

"Harry—you're cutting off circulation in my arm."

"Sorry." He relaxed his grip a fraction.

"Dermot only struck in Boston to get Tara to go there. And now she's not here with me. It worked."

Usually, he could follow her logic, but holding back the panic was making it hard to think. He shook his head at her, trying to clear it. "I'm confused, Gin. What worked?"

"By striking in Boston, he scared Tara back there, and now he's either on his way back here or already here. He knows I don't have Tara to lean against anymore, and that's what he wanted all along." Ginny's voice shrank to a miserable whisper, and Harry rubbed his free hand along her back. "I don't like this. It feels like he's moving in on me, and I can't do a thing to stop it."

She had put his entire scan of emotion into words so effortlessly. Harry swallowed and kept rubbing her back, the fact that it was four a.m. suddenly sharp in his mind. Carefully, he sneaked a look at Ginny's pale face, confirming that she hadn't slept. The black circles around her eyes just looked harsh in the gloomy half-light. "Look," he said, trying as hard to keep his voice reasonable and calm for her sake, "Ron assigned me as your bodyguard with good reason. You're his favourite sister. Do you really think he'd trust your safety to somebody who couldn't do the job?" Warily, she shook her head, and he saw the first glistening of tears start in her eyes. "This isn't something to lose sleep over, Gin. I'm going to protect you. He won't touch you or Tara or anybody. Do you believe me?"

There was a long stretch of silence before she finally whispered, "I believe you."

"Good. C'mon—we have a long day ahead of us tomorrow. Let's get some sleep before we wake Neville." He'd heard stirring from the other room, but knew from years of sharing a room with the fellow that Neville could sleep like the dead. Ginny, however, didn't know that. She allowed herself to be led back to the bedroom and climbed into the bed, curling up with her back to him. Harry way awake for a long time after she drifted off, worrying about the very same things that he had told her not to.

* * *

"Say, Amy, why do you have that bloke hanging around you all the time?" Tracy Harrows wanted to know as Ginny handed out the itinerary forms to each of the Typhoon members.

Ginny glanced over her shoulder to where Terrence Holicrest was leaning against a locker, apparently ignoring the rest of the locker room to indulge himself in _The Daily Prophet_. Every few seconds or so, however, she saw his dark eyes flick around the room, double-checking to make sure that there wasn't any danger nearby. Harry had asked him to fill in as a bouncer-like bodyguard, which had sweet of him, but still a bit hard to explain.

"He's my assistant," she lied smoothly, handing one of the sheets to Melinda. "I've been lobbying for one for a few weeks now. He's the answer to my calls."

"I didn't realise that assistants were so _big_," Stacy remarked.

Ginny had to agree. Terrence was bigger than either Tad Gideon or Frank Greeley, and his forearms had to be as thick as Ginny was altogether. To top that, he had the darkest skin she had ever seen, giving him the appearance of a tame blackbear. Ginny could see why he hit it off so well with Euan: Terry was laid-back and informal, with a sense of humour that struck at the most random of moments.

"Terry's one of a kind." Ginny left it at that and began shuffling through her armful of paperwork, searching for the waivers that the three Chasers would need to sign in order to participate in the American Quidditch Open. "He scares people off who want to bug me. I like him."

"What's Harry think?" Stacy asked slyly.

"Harry's grateful that I'm no longer killing myself to get all the work done."

Well, at least that much was true. Fred and George were coming by the Hutch later that day, to discuss a few product endorsements with Harry and to bring along their work for Ron and Hermione's wedding. It made Ginny suspicious that they would take such an avid interest in the wedding, but she was tired that she was willing to let bygones be bygones, as the term went. She figured some of it was at least Fred working off his own nerves, for his own Autumn wedding was rapidly approaching. The American Quidditch Open would take place in the last two weeks of August, a kick-off for the American Quidditch season that always started a fortnight before the British one. Since the Typhoon weren't allowed in to the British Quidditch League yet, they were spending a year playing scrimmages and doing promotional events, Ginny's forte.

"Oh, yay," Stacy deadpanned as Ginny handed each a sheaf of parchment. "More paperwork to sign."

"This is the standard 'you get hurt in our stadium, you can't sue us,' deal, right?" her twin asked, flipping through her own stack.

"Pretty much. They've got a clause about not suing the government, since we'll be one of the foreign teams, but besides that, it's pretty much a carbon copy of the forms you all had to sign when you played for the Harpies."

"And how I don't miss them," Tracy muttered just as Ginny had turned away to head back to Terrence.

This statement made the redhead stop in her tracks and turn to stare at the Chaser. "What? You didn't like playing for the Harpies?"

Melinda glanced up from where she was putting her initials on the required lines of the second form. "Oh, none of us did."

"Why not?" She'd heard rumours about the Harpies, how they weren't exactly a team that got along behind the scenes, but that was all she had chalked it up to be. But if Stacy, Tracy, and Mel, three of the most personable people she knew, hadn't liked it, the rumours truly had some evidence to back them up as facts.

"We weren't human. We were players." Tracy shrugged as though that explanation summed it all up.

"What my twin means to say is that they trained us as though we didn't have personalities, so whenever we did something creative on the pitch, it was…well, we got yelled at afterwards." Stacy shrugged as well and handed Ginny back a stack of completed forms. "Here, Bear seems to realise that creativity's our best ploy and fully expects us to use it. He's a good captain. He makes the Davenports more bearable."

Ginny remembered the wager that was going on about Tracy and Bear, and wondered if they were setting up the wrong twin with the lanky Keeper. She made a note to bring it up with Mel, who was eyeing both twins with a thoughtful look in her eye, took the parchments from Tracy and Mel, and headed over to the men's side of the locker room. They were all seated on the benches in jeans and T-shirts, their feet bare as they joked and planned for the next few games. "Hey, guys. Paperwork!"

The four groaned. "_More_ paperwork?" Tad groused, taking the stack Ginny held out. "What's this, us selling our souls to the devil?"

"Tad, we're star Quidditch players. We did that a long time ago. Remember that contract? I had mine framed." Frank's grin was quick, but he still wrinkled his nose at his own stack. "Have the birds already filled this all out?"

"Yes, and they were going faster than you."

That, of course, immediately started a race between the four men to see who could get the paperwork done the fastest. Bear finished first, shoving the handful triumphantly at Ginny, with Harry, Tad, and then Frank all close behind. They joked and mock-punched Bear's arm as he ran a joking victory lap around the benches. "Sorry," Ginny told them, shuffling the paperwork about in her arms. "The birds were faster than you after all. Better luck next time, guys."

She left to a chorus of groans.

"That was almost mean of you," Terrence observed as the pair of them left the locker room.

"It got the work done." Ginny shrugged and shuffled most of the papers into her second briefcase, the one she usually carried around the stadium. "They just needed to be motivated. And then humbled. So I just gave them a hand."

"Very kind of you." They made a left into the main office complex, automatically heading towards the stairs where Ginny's small office was located. Terrence took the briefcase away from her. "I wasn't aware that I was going to be your secretary when I received this job," he remarked as he took a seat in his own office, which was right next to Ginny's. "Two people called this morning looking for you, and I fed them both cockamamie stories about how you're out having the time of your life picking on the men of the Nottingham Typhoon. Especially the one with the bad hair."

"I happen to like his hair, thanks," Ginny replied tartly, raising her eyebrow. "Any chance you remember who called?"

"Bloke with brown hair. Said he owned an apothecary. And a spacy chick. Blonde hair, blue eyes. Er…I _think _it was Loony Lovegood, but I haven't seen her since my third year, so I can't be sure."

This brought a rather feline smirk to Ginny's face as she contemplated the empty grate that had held her friends' heads earlier that morning. "Neville and Luna on the same day? Interesting."

"Right. Well, they said they both got your message about tea this morning, and called to confirm they're going to be there." Terrence smiled at her smirk, his eyes gleaming with his own amusement. "Something tells me that this isn't just tea you're setting up."

"Why would you say that? Okay, c'mon, we've got to get this paperwork priority owled by four, and then I need to schedule appointments with merchandising, Bear's agent, and need to owl the woman in charge of security for Tropicana Stadium."

Terrence laughed a bit as he leaned forward and began searching through the documents. "Tropicana Stadium?"

"Yeah—it's some kind of Muggle orange juice brand. The stadium's in Florida, where we'll be playing in the Quidditch Open." She wrote down a note to get all of the uniforms checked over—they had to switch to mostly grey robes before the match so that they wouldn't be too similar to the American National Quidditch Team, which wore the bold red, white, and blue as though they owned it. "You managed to make appropriate excuses so you'll be there for the Open, right?"

"Right. With Euan in America, I don't have much to do. No love life at the moment." Terrence laughed and rubbed his thigh, relaxing a bit as he did so. "What do you want me to do? Owl people or the paperwork?"

"Paperwork. I'll deal with the owls personally." She had to get a message to Hermione, who had looked strangely wan while they were packing up boxes. Something was going on there, and it was puzzling Ginny that Hermione hadn't even acknowledge the need to perhaps share whatever it was on her shoulders. Had she and Ron had a fight? It certainly didn't look like it from Ron, but these things could be very, very deceptive.

She sighed to herself and set about to doing her work. For the next couple of hours, she and Terrence were quiet as each worked on the assigned task, determined to get the job done before the day finished. They heard the team approaching before they saw them, seven voices crowding to be heard, laughing and jesting with each other as they neared. She heard Frank's deep laughter after Tad's joke, the nearly-identical chiming in of both Stacy and Tracy, and then giggles as the punch-line was delivered. Seconds later, the majority of the team tumbled through the door, following Harry.

"Lunch time!" Tad announced to the pair in their offices. "We let Tracy pick the place, so it's French again, but Harry's promised to pay for us—right, Potter?"

"Lost a bet," Harry muttered under his breath, moving close to her as she stood.

"I don't know if Harry could afford me." Ginny leaned around him (he had his hands resting on her waist), and smirked at the rest of the team's amusement. "I bet Bear could, though. He probably made a lot with the Arrows."

Bear scratched the back of his neck and pretended to look sheepish. "I did save them from a tight spot or two. All for you, though, Pretty-Miss-Mason. All for you."

Harry immediately whipped around and growled at him, making the others laugh. "Hey, back off my woman!" He ruined the impression of a caveman by bursting into small spasms of laughter. "Although I don't know if I should keep her if she's only willing to go for the first thing with deeper pockets."

Ginny smacked his shoulder, trying to hold back her laughter as the others immediately chimed in with several sexual innuendoes about that remark. By the time the rest of them and Terrence took off for the restaurant, the topic had changed several times, and had delved into much dirtier details. Harry stayed behind a minute to help Ginny with the last of the paperwork, and she handed over seven of the sheets. "A release," she said in a soft voice, "for the Tunnel. I slipped it in with the rest of the paperwork, wrote it off as a clause."

He raised his eyebrows. "Nice." The papers disappeared into his back pocket. "So, you planning to leave me for Bear now, is that it?"

She heard the joking pretence of the words, but more importantly the underlying hesitation and restrained anger. The focus in his look was mild, but she had practically grown up with him for six years. She knew when something was boiling under his skin, had seen his eyes get that distant cast so many times over the years that it didn't surprise her when the feeling of being sixteen and helpless under that gaze nearly overwhelmed her.

Testing the waters, she shrugged. "Don't see why I would."

"You said it yourself. He has deeper pockets than me."

That technically wasn't true; Ginny had been given a glance at Bear's account in light of their recent investigations. However, that didn't matter right now. What mattered was that something unpleasant was building up in Harry, and for the first time, she could see the resemblance to the boy she'd left in England over five years before. The polish Hermione had slaved to smother the original Harry with was finally gone. "Actually," she pointed out, keeping her voice even and a bit detached, "you said that. I just said I thought Bear could afford me."

"Does it matter who said it?"

"Kind of, if you're using it to make a point. Is something wrong?"

"Is that how it is?"

This question brought a chilly draft into the room with it. Slowly, Ginny turned away from the paperwork and looked at him, her head tilted to the side. "How what is, Harry?" Now, she found, it was harder to keep her voice calm. "What are you not-so-subtly trying to imply?"

"Deep pockets? Is that it? That's what usually draws people to me—my wealth, my fame, my whole bloody history!"

"Oh, sure, that must be it." Her voice was nearing subzero temperatures now; she pinned him with her coldest gaze. Her sarcasm at that moment could bite through metal. "That's exactly how it is, Harry. I'm after your _bank account_ and your _Quidditch Career_. Because, you know, it makes _all_ the difference and I don't even know _you_ at all."

She'd jarred him. He hesitated the slightest bit, doubt flickering where there had been anger building before. With a pang, she realised that she'd unwittingly said his greatest fear aloud. So many things she'd wondered about him in the past few weeks suddenly made sense: his previous unwillingness to date anybody more than casually, his close circle of friends, his apparent lack of interest in anything besides Quidditch. It made one wonder if he'd ever truly admitted it to himself. She'd been down that road: coming to realise self-delusion was never a pretty thing. Of course, with her it had been deadly, with him it was just…another step closer to whatever he was looking for.

"It could," he said suddenly, interrupting her train of thought.

She gave him a pained look. "Then you're not as bright as I thought."

A muscle to the left side of his jaw worked as he struggled with this. "Am too."

"Harry, I refuse to get into an 'are not, am too' fight with you. It's juvenile, for one thing, and annoying for another—"

"So I'm juvenile now, is that it?"

Why, Ginny wondered, wanting to rub her forehead with her hand and resisting, did men have to be so stubbornly complex? She was going on about three hours of sleep, and it looked like Harry was just picking a fight. She sighed at him and rolled her eyes. "When you're ready to grow up and stop biting my head off, you can talk to me again."

And then she Disapparated. In her annoyance, the _pop!_ was louder than usual.

* * *

It was a grim day indeed when Ron Weasley strode into Tony's Pub with the expression he had worn on several occasions, most of them dire and better left to the nightmares. His sleeves were rolled up, his wand was out, and the back of his neck was bright, boiling red. Harry knew he was in trouble the instant the door swung open, but he hadn't had enough time to prepare himself for just how much trouble.

Now, he wondered if it might be a good idea to run. And maybe hide. Or just plain old change his name and dye his hair blond.

Ron crossed the pub in three longish strides, nodded curtly to Tony and Jack, and grabbed Harry by the shoulder of his robes, fisting the material in a tight clutch. "Potter. Outside. Now." His voice was rather close to what Molly Weasley might sound like as a young man looking after his sister. Harry shook off the offending hand and stood up on his own, following behind Ron as the redhead stalked from the pub. His entire body felt stiff, but that might have been from the mystery drink Jack had finally pawned off on him several minutes before.

They stopped in the alley beside the pub, a place that Harry had visited many times before. Ron waited until they were out of view of the street and immediately rounded on him. "Merlin, Potter, I've put up with a lot from you over the years, but it's never been about my sister before! Just what the bloody hell do you think you're doing?"

Harry immediately tensed for a fight, although he and Ron hadn't come to blows in a long time, if ever. Right now, his blood rang funnily between his ears and he had a bit of a hard time focusing on his friend's face. "It was a stupid mistake on my part, and not much of your bloody business."

"Well, you _made_ it my business when you stopped following your bleeding orders!"

Whatever he was expecting Ron to say, it wasn't that. Harry actually rocked back on his heels in surprise and nearly dropped his jaw. However, self-preservation caught hold at the last moment and he kept his trap firmly closed. His jaw worked as he struggled to understand the situation. "What do you mean, stopped following orders? I thought this was about the stupid little tiff—"

"Stupid little tiff? Harry, you left Ginny completely without a bodyguard! She showed up at the Burrow alone twenty minutes ago, saying that you've been missing all afternoon! And here I come to find out you've spent them in a bloody pub?!"

It hit Harry then, that he was in for a lot of trouble. He'd seen the glint in Ron's eye upon entering the pub, but he'd figured that it was nothing more than an older brother looking out for a sister. Whatever it was that was in his system had caused him to miss it: the set of Ron's jaw could only be about one thing. He had done something to endanger another Tunnel member, and now it was time for the Seeker to hit the stands, as the term went around the social circuits.

"I couldn't exactly help it! She just left!"

"Did you _bother _to even look for her?"

"Of course, I bothered! I spent six bloody hours searching for her until Terrence finally deigned to tell me that she was all right!" Harry shoved a hand through his hair and jerked into a two pace stride, turning back and forth around in the alley almost fast enough to make his friend dizzy. "I even owled Tara over in America—a letter that I imagine she's getting right about now, and one I'm sure will put _loads _of relief in her heart. I tell you one thing, I'm firing Terrence first chance I see him. Bloody wanker can't even—"

"What!"

"Exactly! I owled the bloody idiot three times to ask where Ginny was, and he doesn't—" Harry stopped abruptly at the panicked look on Ron's face and seriously considering punching his friend to bring him out of the daze. "What? What is it?"

"Terrence—get to the Burrow!" Without bothering to explain, Ron disappeared. Harry stood there, rocking a bit on his feet at the explosive shockwaves Ron's Disapparation had left. When it finally hit him just what was scaring Ron, he swore viciously and did the same.

* * *

The dustbin on the left was shifting a bit more than its twin. Luna Lovegood frowned and removed her wand from its holster, wishing that her pencil wasn't still stuck in the knee of the reporter from Brazil. He'd been nice, but a little too…what was the word? Her father had used it often. Oh, yes, effusive. He'd been too effusive, and after he hadn't listened to Luna when she had told him—quite politely, actually—that she had no interest in people with mouths as big as his. So she had to sacrifice her pencil into his knee to make sure that he didn't hurt her. He might have been a bit sloshed. Some of the reporters in the camp had been drinking over breakfast.

The problem was that the pencil she'd staked him with had been her best one—it had written with faint letters, perfect for capturing the whimsical nature of her thoughts. Now she had only pens. Quills, she had learned years before, were messy, messy things, staining one's fingers and acting as a sign to let everybody know that you were a reporter. With pens, there were no stains, and people tended to be honest when you asked them questions.

It took a particularly large jump from the dustbin a few feet in front of Luna to bring her out of her contemplation of writing utensils. She tensed and poked tentatively at it with her wand, but all that did was make it wobble a bit. Obviously, the rhodondin inside was very light.

Her father had wholeheartedly believed in the existence of rhodondins, a fairy crossling that wasn't so bad when it was just a rubbish scavenger. However, some of the wilder rhodondins were known to sneak into houses at night and purposely cause mischief—eating spare keys, socks, gnawing on random lessonwork and adding cause to the tales of "my dog ate my lessonwork." Linus Lovegood had been trying to prove their existence for years, and Luna had carried on his life's work. Once she opened up that lid and performed the freezing spell, she would have finally settled another of his unresolved missions.

The thought made her feel a bit warm with happiness as, one hand on her wand, she reached forward with her left hand and grasped the lid of the dustbin. Taking a deep breath, she yanked it up.

And was promptly attacked by sharp claws and flying fur.

She let out a startled shriek and managed one good swing with the dustbin lid, catching the attacking beast squarely on the jaw and sending it flying. It landed on four paws and hissed malevolently at her, furious that she'd ruined its dinner. Dismayed and bleeding now, Luna could only stare as the tomcat turned and stalked away.

Light flooded the alley behind her; the shop beside her had turned on its porch light to see what the noise was. Luna heard the footsteps cross from the stoop to around the corner, but she didn't move from her dejected position, watching the cat's hindquarters disappear into the gloom. Night was descending over Diagon Alley, and it looked like her quest had just hit yet another brick wall. This might be funny if it wasn't the, what, seventh time?

"What's all this racket?" demanded a voice behind her.

Luna didn't turn. "Research gone wrong." Sighing, she decided to face whatever was coming to her, and stuck her hands into her pockets. She turned slowly. "Unfortunately. I was looking for a rhodondin—Neville? Neville Longbottom?"

She couldn't tell if it was him clearly—he was standing with his back to the light and it threw his front into shadow. But she remembered that goofy, floppy haircut and the slope of his shoulders as he stood, and this man was about the right height. And he jumped at his name. Then he moved forward, the shadows shifting a bit so that she could see part of his face. "Luna?"

She liked her name, especially when he said it. "Hi."

He looked at her for a long moment, his face almost unreadable. He looked confused, but she couldn't tell beyond that. "Luna? Lovegood?"

Hadn't she just acknowledged that? "Yes…"

He paused, and then crossed his arms, and then touched his chin with his thumb and his forefinger, as though he couldn't quite remember her. She just waited for him to finish thinking. She always liked finishing her thoughts, so she always waited politely until others were done. "Sorry, I'm just a little—well, I don't know. Luna, what the bloody blazes are you doing in an alley in London and why are you in this particular alley? And have you been messing around in my dustbins?"

"Oh. That." She looked down at the lid in her hand, somewhat dazedly. "Well, the good news is you don't have any rhodondins in your dustbins."

"Don't have any—" Neville broke off and sighed, rubbed his hand through his hair. Luna got the distinct impression that he was not talking to her anymore, and wondered if she should stop listening. "Right. Something about dustbins—Hermione mentioned it, and it completely slipped my mind. What are—wait a minute." He moved a bit closer and Luna, about to turn and replace the lid, froze. "Are you bleeding?"

She didn't see the point of lying, and the scratches were starting to hurt now that he had brought them up. "The cat didn't like me. I think I startled it."

His confusion turned into a frown. "The cat hated your neck the way it was, that's for sure. Look, come inside—I have a salve for that, and it'd be nice to catch up with you, since you're here and all."

Inside turned out to be the interior of The Third Green Thumb, Neville's apothecary and greenhouses. Hermione had written about it in many of her novel-length letters, describing the place to be rather cramped and a plant-lover's absolute dream. Neville's affection for all things growing showed in his decorations—paintings of different magical herbs and plants crowded the spaces on the wall where there weren't any shelves. He'd painted all of the shelves, which were about shoulder-height and made from thick, sturdy wood, a dark green to complement the forest nature around the shop. The shop, which they passed through to get to the greenhouses in the back, smelled of fresh herbs—the sharp tang of dragon's breath arguing with the smoky sent of dried rosemary. As an apothecary, the shop had to sell other types of ingredients, but anything non-herbal was stored in an adjoining room and managed by one of Neville's associates.

Neville's office, Luna discovered as she followed him, was crammed into the small space between the greenhouses and the shop, and doubled as extra storage space. Neville instructed her to sit in the only chair, an old creaky number, while he rummaged through filing cabinets that coughed pathetically when he opened it. "Needs new furniture, the whole ruddy place does," he muttered under his breath, sticking his arm up to his shoulder deep into the drawer and rooting around. His hand emerged clutching onto a first aid kit, and he opened that while Luna hazily studied his office, from the stacked paperwork on the desk to the random equipment that was shoved into hasty storage. The walls were barren and concrete, only a calendar pinned to them. There was a small icebox shoved into the corner, the front smothered in magnets and photographs, most of them waving at the pair.

"So, exactly why were you upsetting cats in my alley just now?" Neville asked conversationally as he perched on a precarious-looking stack of topsoil bags to get a better look at her neck and jaw.

"I was looking for a rhodondin. They're normally in dustbins outside of apothecaries, you know," Luna told him matter-of-factly.

"Were you." He didn't say it like a question, so she didn't answer. He looked down to rummage through the first aid kit, so she took a moment to study him and figure out what had changed in the five years she had been gone from Great Britain.

Well, he looked older, that much was obvious. He'd had baby-fat at Hogwarts that made him look soft and sort of puffy, but that had trimmed down into a moderately-sized man. His features were more boxy than they'd been years before, and he had a very faint scar on one cheek, nothing more than a small line. She frowned at the sight of a few grey hairs mixed in with the chestnut colour.

"So," he said, looking up and at her, "what exactly is a rhodondin?"

As she explained about the rhodondin's love for socks and spare keys, Neville dabbed a type of salve on the scratches and rubbed away the excess with a cloth. It itched, but she didn't want to scratch it for fear of messing up his careful work. "I believe a family of them has been hopping from one city to the next," she finished, "and I've finally tracked them back to London. They started out in Fez—I lost them for a couple of weeks back in January, but now I'm on the right track. I was so sure they were hiding in that dustbin."

"Maybe you'll have better luck next time," Neville said distantly, wiping salve off of his finger with the rag. Luna got the distinct impression he wasn't listening to her, but focusing on his work. That is, until he surprised her with, "So how do you know it's the same family as the one you were tracking in Fez?"

"They're not rumoured to be tenacious, but these ones in particular don't give up, so that's why I know have the right ones," Luna told him as though it should be completely obvious. "That, and these ones usually like green dustbins over other types."

Instead of answering, Neville stood and returned the first aid kit to the drawer. "You can scratch that," he said, nodding at Luna's neck. "It must itch. That salve is irritating at first, but the feeling will go away in a couple of minutes. After that, the cuts should just close up. Hopefully, that cat that attacked you had relatively clean claws."

Luna gratefully lifted a hand and scratched the side of her neck. "Do you own this place?" she asked curiously, swivelling her head around to investigate.

Neville nodded and returned to his seat on the topsoil. "I came into some money when Uncle Alphie died of 'mysterious causes.' So I bought this place—Harry helped out a bit, and a lot of the Weasleys came and helped me clean it up, paint the shelves. Would you like a tour?"

"I'd like that very much, thank you."

* * *

Magical travelling methods had never been Harry Potter's forte, and he was paying for it now.

The Apparation seemed to take longer than ever, even though it usually occurred within the blink of an eye—Harry left the alley beside Tony's and thought as hard as he could about Ginny's room in the Burrow, even though she'd probably kill him for Apparating directly in. However, he didn't care.

He landed outside of her room, outside of the house, even. He didn't even manage to land within half a kilometre—water splashed up his jeans all the way to his thighs and he let out a shout to discover that he was standing in the fishing pond adjacent to the Quidditch field, nearly a kilometre away from the Burrow. Panic mingled with the annoyance, causing him to growl as he sloshed his way from the middle of the pond, up the muddy shore, and then took off in a sprint towards the house.

He didn't see it coming.

A fist sprang seemingly out of nowhere and caught him in a hard right cross, nearly shattering his jaw and throwing him solidly to the ground. All of the wind rushed out of him, and his shout came out as a wheeze.

"I was almost worried you weren't going to come, Potter," an oily voice muttered from the darkness in front of him. In an instant, Harry's insides froze. "You know, it's a wonder I even leave her with you. You obviously can't protect her. It took you how many hours to figure out that I was masquerading as your pretty boy Terrence?"

Slightly dazed, Harry scrambled to his feet. His heart was pounding against the back of his neck, crushing his uvula. It was one thing to panic at Tony's and think that Ginny had unwittingly been following her stalker around all day, but it was another to face a dark shadow in front of him. The fear that something had happened to Ginny, that this type of danger could strike so close to a place that was sacred to all of the Weasleys nearly crushed him in its reticence.

"Dermot," he said, all moisture gone from his mouth.

"I'm surprised you remembered my name, Potter. Takes a lot of thought capacity and I, for one, didn't think you had it in you."

Now that some of the initial pain from his jaw had dwindled to a slow burn, he could make out more of a man in the shadow in his path. He had a few centimetres on Dermot, centimetres that would be valuable if it came down to a physical fight. As he had witness firsthand, Dermot's punch was a force to be reckoned with. Harry reached for his wand, only to discover it missing.

"Looking for something?" Dermot asked. Light flashed off to his side, and he held up Harry's wand, point glowing from a simple _Lumos _spell. "Dear little Potter has lost his wand. How shall he ever come out to play today?"

"Where is she?" Harry growled, tightening his hands into fists. "What have you done with her?"

"I haven't done a thing." The light from the _Lumos _spell created a halo around Dermot, throwing everything but the very centre of his eyes into sharp relief. Under the light, his eyes appeared swollen and vicious, and hatred sent physical sparks across Harry's vision as he glared into them, daring the man to come closer. "You clearly misunderstand me, Potter. Ah, ah, don't move—" For Harry's feet had inched forward across path almost on their own. "Stay put like the nice little boy you are."

Dermot had sharper lines across his face than Harry's, some wrinkles and others stress-marks. Ginny had mentioned that he was older before, but it had never crossed Harry's mind. The man was built like a warrior—a barrel-chest dominated a build that was slowly becoming stocky with age—but Harry figured he had at least agility over the man. "What have you done with her?!" he growled again.

"I told you already."

"Like I'm supposed to believe you?!"

"Who's got the wand here, little boy?"

Dermot's voice, that nasally Irish accent, was making the blood rush strangely past Harry's ears, as though securing the young man into a vacuum where nothing existed but his foe and himself. Over Dermot's shoulder, Harry could see the lights of the Burrow, but it wasn't registering. This was the man that had tried to kill Ginny, had made two years of her life comparable to Hell, and now he was standing in front of Harry, just out of arm's reach.

What happened next could only be known as messy. Something that had been roiling in the deepest depth of Harry's darkness snapped with an almost audible noise, and Harry threw himself forward from a dead stop. Dermot dodged to the side, but not quickly enough to avoid being clipped in the right side. In a haphazard tumble, they fell, fists flying with blind abandon. Harry landed twisted about on his side and quickly rolled, catching more than he liked of Dermot's punches. He drove his fist into the other man's chin and somehow ended up on his feet, thinking of nothing but getting Dermot farther away from the house and where Ginny might be.

"You can't protect her enough, Potter," Dermot taunted, throwing up an arm to stop a punch. Besides his words, the night was left to their grunts.

The night was alive with the sound of bodies scuffling, grunts occasionally heard when each fighter scored a hit. Harry, who had learned everything he knew from a few old teammates, had been taught to fight dirty, and so did, swiping at Dermot's eyes, pummelling his fists as hard as he could into Dermot's midsection. A lucky elbow/swipe sent the wand, still lit, tumbling off of the path. All that Harry could see of his opponent were flashes that moved through the forest of shadows, so the only thing he could do was guess where Dermot might be from one moment to the next, and send a fist or a foot in that direction.

He didn't see the knife.

A foreign hiss, a flash of silver in the low wandlight, the only warning he had. By some small measure of luck, Dermot only managed to scratch his elbow, missing the slot between his ribs by precious centimetres. Harry shouted and blindly kicked out, catching Dermot just at the wrist and sending the stalker backwards in surprise. Another kick forced Dermot back yet again. His boot caught on something; with his own grunt of surprise, Dermot landed on his back, sprawled across the path.

The knife clattered to the ground as Harry threw himself on top of Dermot, fists already thudding as hard as they could against the other man's torso. He didn't know what he was doing; all he knew was that he just couldn't seem to stop himself, and that Dermot deserved every hit and that much more, even though the man was whimpering…and people were shouting his name…and that bloody Irish accent was pleading and outright crying…for mercy…

"_Harry_!"

Bruising hands on his shoulders shoved him off and _carried _him away from where he had been beating Dermot to a bloody mass. Swearing, Harry fought them as hard as he could, but other hands joined them and became a swarm around him, tugging him away from Dermot and towards safety. The air was lit with whispers of "_Lumos_!" and Harry's frantic swearing as he continued to fight off his captors. He wasn't even aware of who it was around him, only that they knew him and yet were still trying to keep him away from the creature that had hurt Ginny.

"Calm down," somebody was muttering in his ear.

"Oh no."

Footsteps had come down the path from the Burrow; with two words whispered from Ginny, the scene froze. Harry stopped struggling and hung there limply, and Dermot looked up from where he was fighting off the hands of two Weasleys. Ginny herself was rooted right beside a bend in the path, an expression of shock captured on her face. She was staring past Harry to Dermot.

"Hi, Ginny," he said simply, and disappeared.

_A/N Part Two: If you're confused, that's my fault. However, stick around for the next chapter--it'll be fun, I promise._


	9. Refurbishing a Pearl

Disclaimer: JKR's. Not mine.

A/N: This was another disappointing chapter for me because while my characters grew, I had to put off the fun scene until next chapter. It's there, written, on my computer, but it's going to have to be in chapter ten. Sorry about promising you all a fun chapter and not delivering.

Chapter Nine: Refurbishing a Pearl

Somehow, and Harry would probably never figure out how, Ron, Bill, the twins, Ginny, and Hermione managed to smuggle him into the Burrow, give Molly an acceptable excuse, and get Harry all the way up to Ron's bedroom without either Percy or the Weasley parents noticing. They may have Disillusioned him—he couldn't be sure, as everything had exploded into a mess inside his head with the departure of Dermot Raine from the pathway behind the Burrow. He moved along in a half-daze, pain making it hard to focus on anything in particular. Flashes of red hair, freckles, white skin, Hermione's bushy hair, hands pushing at him, pulling at him. It obviously took several of them to move him, a fact that would amuse him later.

Right now, however, he was too busy staring at a faded and curling Chudley Cannons poster as movement blurred around him in the shape of Hermione, who was bustling about, fetching strips of this or that, tapping him on the shoulder with her wand or her fingers. Slowly, the pain abated, dissolving into numbness as Hermione's spells began to take hold. As the agony lessened, Harry rediscovered the ability to focus his gaze, to garner ideas from the dizzied thoughts racing through his head, to pay attention to the world around him again.

Ron was seated on the cot that was permanently set up for when Harry came to visit the Burrow. Harry was jarred to realise that he was seated on Ron's own bed with Hermione fluttering around him, tutting under her breath. He craned his neck to get a look at her face and winced when that action sent spurts of discomfort down the side of his neck and into his back. "What's going on?"

"You used Dermot Raine as a personalised punching bag, and it looks like he returned the favour." Ron's voice was quiet—not quite angry—and he was leaning forward, eyes downcast to look at his hands. He stood up to pace as Harry stared at him, not certain what his friend's next move was going to be. "You should have called for help and we might have ended this, but instead—"

"Instead you acted like two boys in a school yard," Hermione broke in crossly. "Honestly, Harry, he could have _killed_ you, could have—"

"Let him try." Harry shrugged, and flinched. He then decided not to move; any way he moved, it would irrevocably end in pain of some type. His head ached and felt as though it weighed as much a heavy stone between his shoulders. "So many people have. I think I have nine lives."

He was expecting an explosion at this statement, but when it came from Ron, he was nearly floored. Hermione had opened her mouth, but it was Ron that began to swear at him. "You bloody prat!"

"Wh-what?"

"I've never thought you to be an idiot, Harry," Ron continued, ignoring the astounded looks on the faces of his wife and best friend. "Even that bit in our fifth and sixth years, I always knew it was just you working off stress. Or something. But this? This is—this is puerile!" Now Hermione closed her mouth with a snap, eyes widening at the vocabulary. "This is easily the lowest thing you've done! Have you _no_ consideration? First, you storm off alone and drop off the face of the earth, and when we finally do find you, it's to see you whaling on Dermot Raine like a bloody psychopath?! You can't keep doing stuff like this! My _sister_ is in tears downstairs because she's been so bloody worried about you all sodding day! What has got into you? What, did you take Wanker Lessons from Malfoy?!

"I know about you and Ginny, Harry."

Now Harry looked away; he and Ginny hadn't worked hard to keep their changing relationship under wraps, but the words were now out in the open. It was undeniable, and that stirred something unspoken inside. However, Ron wasn't done.

"You have her to look out for now. Not only as her bodyguard—which I am seriously reconsidering, by the way—but as her boyfriend. In case you haven't noticed, she has a stalker—"

"I noticed," Harry said coldly, lifting his head to glare at his best friend.

Ron looked about to say something else, but Hermione quickly stepped in between the two friends, her arms crossed. "Not right now," she said in a low undertone to her husband. "Your mother is expecting us downstairs for dinner now. Harry knows he's an idiot. Let it go for now."

Harry knew that he should feel grateful for Hermione's intervention, but he couldn't quite summon the emotion at the moment. "Yes. Go. Let me soak in the _thousands_ of horrid things I've done today." His voice didn't quite reach the level of sarcasm he intended it to, and he sagged back against the wall.

Glowering, Ron left. Hermione spared Harry a look crossed between sympathy and disappointment, and slipped out after him.

He wanted to stand and throw things, but when he looked down, it was to discover that Hermione had somehow wrangled his right arm into a sling fashioned from orange Chudley Cannons sheets. Besides, standing reminded him that Dermot had done quite a number on him—he imagined that his face, which hurt even through the numbing charms, was not quite straightened out fully, and his muscles occasionally twinged to remind him why hand-to-hand fighting was such a stupid idea.

But he'd been so close…

Close only mattered in Cheering Charms and first-year potions, he told himself, and moved his left shoulder to get more comfortable against the wall.

It was then that the reality of what had just occurred struck him: Dermot had spent over six hours in Ginny's company and Harry, the person who was supposed to protect her from just that, hadn't even caught a whiff of it until after she had arrived at the Burrow. In six hours, anything could have happened. A dizzying array of scenarios that chilled him deeper than the core of his soul flashed unbidden through Harry's mind, and he began to shiver. Dermot had fooled them again. First, he had masqueraded as Scotty Darrow to trick them into going to the Shrieking Shack. Now he had Polyjuiced himself to be Terrence Holicrest, Ginny's second bodyguard.

All of the sudden, Harry couldn't move fast enough. He stumbled down a few stairs and to the loo, dropping to his knees in front of the toilet. Perhaps it was partly the alcohol in his system, but it was mostly the fear and the knowledge that he had come so close to losing Ginny that made him empty out the contents of his stomach. Even when he was sure it was empty, he kept dry heaving, coughing and gasping.

The spell passed slowly, leeching him of all strength. He sagged against the edge of the bathtub and let his chin rest against his chest. Never had he been so close to tears and still so dry.

Above all, he felt foolish.

He didn't know how long he sat like that, head bowed, body slouched forward. Luckily, nobody seemed to have heard his earlier racket, for he was left alone in the loo for quite some time. He didn't know what they had told Molly and Arthur to buy a few minutes with Harry; didn't know what excuse they had given for his absence. He didn't care, either.

In the entire human scope of emotion, nothing has ever managed to come close to the all-encompassing bind of shame. Combined with worry, fear, and even a little relief, a seemingly combustible state can emerge, and it showed now in Harry Potter as he pushed his head into his left palm. Black tufts of hair sprouted between his fingers; his eyes remained squeezed closed in hopes of fighting something foreign: tears.

His tears weren't alone. Before too much longer, he heard a muffled whimpering sort of noise, emanating from directly across the hallway. He listened for a full minute before slowly making his way to his feet and across the hall. The door wasn't locked, and was even a bit ajar, amplifying the sound of somebody crying within. The shame nearly overwhelmed him as he hesitantly pushed the door open. Before his courage could fail, he stepped inside. "Ginny?"

She wasn't curled up on her bed as he had expected to be. Her head snapped up from her position at her desk, and she wheeled about so fast it nearly made him dizzy. What he saw made the guilt avalanche inside of him: her face was red, especially her nose, and her cheeks were slippery with the sign of many spent tears already. In the few seconds her guard was dropped, he saw a montage of unexplainable and raw emotion flicker across her eyes. Even as she turned away from him, her poker face was already sliding into place.

"What are you doing in here?" Her voice sounded an octave too low, and scratchy from the tears.

His feet had grown roots; he chose not to answer her question, and instead studied the tensed set in her shoulders. "How long have you been crying?"

"I dunno. Awhile?"

"Is it—is it because of me?"

This was apparently the wrong thing to ask, for her shoulders tightened up even farther, and the hand that he could see turned white as it grasped the edge of her desk. She waited for such a long moment that he began to panic and wonder if he should try to retract his question. "What is it, Harry? Do you want me to lie and say that everything here is Dermot's fault? That I'm crying because of him?"

Was there anything right to say in this situation? He didn't think so. "No…"

He was expecting to be yelled at, but all she did was rest her forehead on her hands. "Stop lurking."

"What?" Belatedly, he realised that he was still standing in the doorway, and moved away, towards the bed. The door swung shut behind him, making both of them jump. It took him a moment of consideration to sit down on the very edge of it, poised to stand up should he need to escape. "Do you want to talk about what happened today?"

The sound of the dam breaking was nearly audible as Ginny lifted her hands and finally gave him more than a fleeting glance. "Talk about it? Harry, you put yourself in _danger_! Why didn't you just Apparate to the Burrow and let us know he was here?"

Again, this wasn't what he was expecting. "What—?"

"You! You always go off alone, thinking you can single-handedly stop everything—"

The leftover anger towards Dermot was slowly rising to the surface, no matter how hard he was struggling to tamp it down. "You're the same way!"

"I'm trying to change." She looked pained, older than twenty-two now. "The least you could do is the same. I'm not even talking about our stupid little fight today, Harry. The man you fought outside? He was a fully trained Hitwizard before he worked for the Tunnel."

"I was holding my own," Harry said stiffly.

"You were close to murdering him like a bloody animal! Had you slipped up even the slightest bit, he could have ripped you apart! Why didn't you just _go get help_? We were all here—we could have taken him down. Strength in numbers…" She trailed off, whether from weariness of from the look on his face, Harry didn't know. He wasn't looking at her anymore. Sometime in her diatribe, he had refocused his gaze on his knees, not willing to face her anymore. "Look, for some reason you're back and you're different than when I knew you in school. And I don't want to lose you."

"He could have killed you." It wasn't on topic, but the words wouldn't wait inside him anymore. "He could have done anything to you, taken you away, killed you. Horrible things. I…don't even want to think about some of the things he could have done to you." Now, he was shaking. He tucked his hand underneath his leg so she wouldn't notice, and refused to meet her eye. "How can you expect me to sit back and let that happen? I ran into him by accident—and then…I don't know. I just, I guess, I just lost it."

"Harry, look at me."

He didn't want to, but he slowly lifted his chin.

"I'm _fine_, which is more than I can say for you at the moment."

He had never liked being scrutinised, but Ginny's eyes were boring into him now, as though trying to see something that wasn't there. He didn't have the heart to tell her that what she was looking for—a respectable and noble man—would never be there, no matter how long she looked. Instead, he just leaned back against the wall and stared back without searching. "Make me a promise," she said, breaking the long silence.

"What promise?"

"That you won't do something like this again. That next time you'll get help."

He didn't know if it was in him to make a promise like that, but his head nodded woodenly anyway. Now that rationality was slowly setting in, it was the least he could do for her. If nothing else, it would alleviate some of the worry. "If I'm able to." It just wasn't worth it to add to her worry and mention that he had been unable to get help earlier. "Did somebody manage to retrieve my wand?"

"Ron has it." Ginny stood up and crossed to the bed, sitting almost gingerly beside him. "Said he nearly snapped it in half stepping on it."

"Must've dropped it during the fight."

They fell into a long silence then, broken only by the faint strains of a Weasley dinner downstairs. At first, Harry shifted a bit awkwardly, until he came to the realisation that there were nothing to be uncomfortable about during such a silence. Each of them had thoughts to process, things to deal with. It was a welcome break from the endless chattering of his previous girlfriends or the embarrassing pauses on dates with Cho back at Hogwarts. He allowed himself to relax into the quiet, and, taking his chances, draped his good arm across Ginny's shoulders. She in turn leaned against him.

For a long time, they sat like that, quiet with a thousand words between them.

Charlie Weasley paused at the entrance to Claw, Tooth, and Scale Dragon Home, and nearly winced at the sight of the burnt building. For one thing, it didn't smell too pleasant—whatever charms the wizards had used to put out the fire years before had left a lingering stench of burnt skin and, oddly enough, spinach. Next to him, Ron wrinkled his nose at the smell.

Bill, on Ron's other side, didn't seem to mind the odour too terribly much. He strode into the dilapidated building as though he didn't have a care in the world. Unlike many of the dragon homes Charlie had visited, this building was built from a type of hardwood, rather foolishly it seemed. The fire that had destroyed it had left a bare skeleton—patches of the walls all around them were missing, burned out, and charred bits of furniture remained about the large room, which looked as though it could easily house two or three Burrows, and maybe a Hutch. Some walls remained up and almost whole, revealing stalls where the dragons had slept.

"What a waste," Ron muttered, following Bill into the room. "Who on earth would own a non-fireproofed dragon home?"

"An idiot," Charlie said grimly.

Bill was almost the other side of the room, in a small alcove that looked a bit like it had once been an office. "Not all of it was lost," he observed. "Looks like they fireproofed some of the cabinets." A mumbled spell and a wave of his wand had the drawers to a couple of taupe filing cabinets flying open. Bill wasted no time in rifling through the paperwork inside. "Doesn't look like much—a lease to the land…hm…looks like some old credit vouchers that were never cashed, a couple of pedigrees for the dragons that were once housed here…oh, look, a client list." Bill paid particular attention to this as he flicked through the pages of the voluminous list. "Hmm…went to Hogwarts with this fellow—nice chap. Wouldn't expect him to own a dragon."

"Bag all of that up," Ron called. He was pawing through a pile of debris, picking up fire-blackened objects and then tossing them to the side. "I'll ask Neville to look it over."

Shrugging, Bill began dumping the paperwork into the plastic bags they'd brought with them.

"Say," Charlie asked conversationally as he investigated the stalls, pounding on the remaining walls to see how sturdy they were, "isn't this Harry and Ginny's assignment? I mean, for some reason this place is connected to the Nottingham Typhoon, and that's been their case from day one, hasn't it?"

"They're busy," was Ron's reply. "Other situations came up."

Charlie didn't think he liked the significant look that passed between Bill and Ron at this statement. It was unsettling not to be part of something that Bill knew about, although Charlie knew it was because he preferred to work for the Tunnel from a distance. In his opinion, Ron was crazy to pick up such a task as running a secretive organisation—especially because Charlie had trouble seeing him older than fifteen or sixteen. Even for mid-twenties, Ron was proving to be more responsible than a lot of his older brothers. It took some adjusting to, but Ron was never still long enough for that to happen.

"They're dating, right?" he continued, not sure when he fell so far out of the loop.

"For a couple of weeks now, although they haven't exactly been generous with the knowledge," Bill filled him in. "Probably smart—Mum would throw a royal fit at the fact that they're living together."

"They're _living together_?"

"They're flatmates. Neville's there, too." Ron didn't look very troubled about it; he was actually more interested in something that he'd found in the pile. "Hey, check this out."

Charlie looked up from where he was examining a few crisped scales. Shrugging, he slipped those into his pocket and worked his way through the mess to Ron. His younger brother was holding was looked to be some kind of clip, bright silver against the dark brown of the whole building. "Isn't that a Muggle money clip?" Bill asked just as Charlie remembered that Arthur had one in his shed. "Like the one Dad has?"

Ron turned it over in his hand. "Looks like it. No decoration on it. Bill, can you get anything?"

No longer very interested, Charlie wandered off to start investigating again. Although the issue that Ginny was now dating an international Quidditch star was lodged firmly into the back of his mind, he was too entranced by this building. Apart from the folly of not using enough fireproofing charms, the designer had been rather brilliant in setting up the dragon home. He'd seen the large outdoor pens on the way in, ideal for raising young dragons, and these stalls were the perfect size for a full-grown dragon. The place looked like it could house five or six without breaking a sweat, and maybe ten if one didn't mind tight spaces.

"What's the deal with this place?" he asked, wandering back to Ron and Bill. "Does anybody lay claim to it?"

"Nah, we have the lease, and nobody wants the place." Bill was inspecting the floor around the space that Ron had found the money clip. "This clip was placed here after the building burned down. See? There'd be a clean spot on the floor where you found it, but all that's there is a bit of smudged dust."

"It could have fallen from somewhere else," Ron suggested.

"Could have, but probably didn't." Bill took the money clip back and prodded it with his wand. A brief bubble of bright green light flared around the object. "That, and it's enchanted."

"Oh, Dad would have a field day with this one. Somebody enchanting Muggle money clips?"

Bill was frowning at the silver clip in his hand, which had returned to its normal state. "Let me try something." From his pocket, he withdrew a Knut, and slid it carefully between the squeezed end of the clip. A light from inside the clip flashed blue, and the Knut disappeared. "Ah. I had suspected as much."

"What?" Ron and Charlie asked at the same time.

Bill sighed and dropped the clip into one of the plastic bags. "It's a transport device. I haven't seen one this elaborate in awhile, but the basis of it is simple—you set up a transport charm between two devices, and when you put something like money in one of them, it magically transfers it to the other thing. Sort of like a portkey."

"Why would you put a transport device in a place like this?" Ron wanted to know, craning his neck to look around the crumbling building.

"To hide your true intentions from the public, which means that it's probably not a good thing." Bill tied off the plastic bag and handed it to Ron. "It sounds to me like somebody's getting blackmailed."

Charlie figured that this probably wasn't a good time to ask if they'd let him have the lease to the dragon home.

"Fred, I promise you, I can go to the loo by myself." Ginny was quickly nearing the end of her rope, and it didn't look like the source of her frustration was interested in budging any time soon. "You can guard the door if you like, and they have Apparation boundaries put up around this area of the stadium so fans can't sneak in. Really, it's all right."

Fred shook his head. "Let me just call Angie. Look, Harry got us these mobile phones the other day—I can call her and she can Floo in, and then you won't be alone—"

"_No_, Fred. It's _just_ the loo."

But she was too late. Fred already had the mobile phone out and was pressing buttons on it, receiving the occasional beep for his troubles. Triumphantly, he pressed "Talk" and lifted it to his ear. "Angie?—Harry? What are you doing with Angie's phone? What? I didn't call you…" He lowered the phone and looked at the viewscreen in confusion. "Okay, er, apparently I did—"

Ginny rolled her eyes and snatched the phone away from her older brother. "Harry?"

"Ginny?" His voice broke up on the phone, as though wind was attacking him. Glancing at her wristwatch, she realised that this was probably the case. The Typhoon still had twenty more minutes of practice left, and Harry was probably in the air. "What's going on? Anything wrong?"

"My git of a brother won't let me go to the loo alone since you gave out those silly orders!"

She thought she heard muffled laughter, but Harry's voice was relatively normal when he replied. "Maybe he should try one of those Polyjuice treats he and George have been working on?"

"No! That will turn him purple, and I draw the line at walking around with a purple bodyguard!"

"All right, all right. Let me talk to him—oh, wait, before you do that, I have a question. Would you mind if we invited Luna, Ron, and Hermione over for dinner tonight? It's your night to cook, so I figured I'd ask."

"Sure. When?"

"Seven good? Oh, gotta go. Dave's giving me a death look." Without another word, Harry hung up on her. Ginny shrugged and then stared at the dead phone in her hand

Things, Ginny pondered, had been rather stiff for nearly a week now, since the Dermot Scare had jolted all of them out of their comfort zones and deleted any trust in mankind that had been left. Ginny had become rather quiet in that time, and Harry was noticeably tenser than he had been before. It was affecting every part of their lives—Tara called daily, no matter the phone bill, Ron and Hermione kept finding excuses to drop in (had Ginny noticed a plethora of dirty looks between Ron and Harry? She couldn't be sure), and even Luna and Neville were walking on eggshells around the pair, as though they were set to explode. Only the twins treated them as if nothing at all had happened. They jumped at the opportunity to act as Ginny's bodyguards, often walking around the hallways of the stadium shouting, "Team Co-ordinator coming through! Important person passing—yes, more important than you, Red Sweater. Hey, what are you looking at? Mind your own business, Blue Pullover!"

It was becoming quite annoying, but Ginny still appreciated the effort.

Except for right now. She rolled her eyes at Fred and then walked into the loo, still holding the phone so that he wouldn't try to call Angie. To her surprise, he followed her in. "Fred!"

"Always wanted to see what one of these looked like inside."

"It looks like a loo! Go away!"

But Fred was in his element, studying the floral wallpaper with his eyes a couple of centimetres away from it. "Cushy place," he decided. Ginny just gave up and went into one of the stalls. When she came out, it was to find Fred poking experimentally at the magical hand-drying device. "Yours leaves a smell on your hands when it's done," he told her, gesturing at the device.

"Great," Ginny deadpanned. "Now you're going to smell like a _girl_ all day."

The thought of this clearly insulted her brother, for he began wiping his hands on his pants to get rid of the odour. For a minute, Ginny just watched with one eyebrow raised, before shaking her head and leaving her brother with his futile attempts to rid himself of the smell in the loo. He caught up to her just as she reached her office, and spent a good quarter of an hour standing near her as she delegated tasks to various parts of her magical planner (charmed to hold as many dates as possible inside).

"Do you _have_ to hover like that?" she demanded waspishly, throwing her quill down and pushing her fingers into her forehead.

"I don't see much else to do."

"Well, either way, quit it! It's annoying!"

Fred dropped into the one chair her office would allow. "I'm _bored_."

"Well, work on Ron and Hermione's wedding or something!"

"Actually…" Fred pulled the mobile phone from his pocket and flipped it open, keying in a sequence after a minute of thought. Ginny shook her head and went back to her work, sighing at the thought of the load that was waiting for her on getting Angelina's bridesmaids in one room at the same time. She would just have to have several international Quidditch stars as bridesmaids, and getting them in one place was rapidly becoming a hassle. She was tempted to dump the whole matter in Alicia Spinnet-Wood's lap, as was traditional for the Matron of Honour, but the other woman was juggling five months of pregnancy and her husband's Quidditch career.

Not that Ginny wasn't juggling things herself.

"Did you hear the latest?" Fred wanted to know as he came back into the office and plopped down in the chair (it gave a pained groan). "Charlie's taken the lease on the dragon home that burned down awhile back. Says he's going to rebuild it, and fireproof it, of course."

"Great." Ginny wasn't up to providing her usual magnanimous energy to such a project yet. "He's going to want help, isn't he?"

"A few of his dragon raising buddies are getting into the deal, but we'll probably have to help sooner or later." Fred shrugged cheerfully and picked up one of the bridal magazines from Ginny's desk to begin flicking through it. He wrinkled his nose at one of the pages. "Wow, this one is downright hideous. What are blokes supposed to see in these dresses, anyway?"

"The woman they're about to marry, usually."

A twinge was starting in his neck, and Harry wasn't quite sure his right shoulder would ever bend correctly again. He rubbed at his neck with his left hand as he reached for his overshirt. Next to him, Bear and Frank were muted in their exhaustion. Only Tad seemed to be the least cheerful, and he was humming under his breath. Harry rolled his eyes when he caught strains of _Strangers In The Night_ in his team-mate's notes.

"We didn't go too hard on you, did we, Harry?" Stacy Harrows wanted to know, leaning around the barrier between the lockers.

"Americans don't play proper Quidditch," he grumbled, and tugged the shirt over his head. "Seekers should seek the Snitch, not play Quaffle-bait."

"You wouldn't _be _Quaffle-bait if you caught it the first time. You know that, right?" Tracy appeared next to her twin and leaned her chin on Stacy's shoulder, both of them grinning identically at Harry and the other Typhoon men. "Stacy has a date tonight, but does anybody want to come over for drinks?"

Because Bear was between Harry and the twins, Harry was able to see three very different reactions to this offer. The instant the words left Tracy's mouth, Stacy looked sharply to the right, Bear turned abruptly to look back into his locker, and Tracy slapped a hand over her mouth and then looked horrified, between Bear and Stacy.

Harry wondered what was going on between those three, raised his eyebrows, and reached into his locker to grab his jacket. "I can't," he said, shrugging into that. "I'm planning to stay in with Amy tonight. Catch up a bit."

"You and Amy having troubles, mate?" Tad wanted to know as he stuffed his wallet into the pocket of his jeans. Like Harry, he was wearing Muggle clothing, but most of the rest of the team was pulling on robes.

"It's minor stuff," Harry lied. "It'll pass."

He was supposed to meet Ginny and Fred in her office and relieve Fred of his bodyguard duties. They would be heading back to the Hutch to work on the two cases for a bit. Since the Dermot Scare, the two had been working steadily on the plans for the American Quidditch Open, which was a mere four weeks from now. It was now forming up to be a formidable plan, with several back-ups and decoys in place. Ron, Hermione, the Darrows, and hopefully Neville and Luna would be accompanying them to America to help trap Dermot for good. That in itself took some co-ordinating, but the work at least kept Ginny busy and saved her from thinking too much.

"See you tomorrow, then," Frank said, clouting Harry on the shoulder on his way out of the locker room. "Bear, you dropping by tonight to look at those game plans?"

"Er, no. I've got other plans. Maybe tomorrow?" Bear was still staring into his locker.

Harry gave him a puzzled look, but decided it wasn't any of his business. Shrugging to himself, he bid the team adieu and headed into the office complex of the stadium.

"Oi, Harry!"

Ron's voice in the corridor made him turn with both eyebrows raised. The redheaded man was heading toward him at a near-sprint, his long legs eating the distance away in long bounds. "Glad I caught you," he said as he caught up to Harry. He was dressed in Muggle clothing also, probably fresh from a visit to London. His T-shirt was bright orange and showed the Chudley Cannons logo with pride. "What was that idiotic dragon of Hagrid's named?"

"Norbert. As I seem to recall, he was a Norwegian Ridgeback, probably the only one that ever owned his own stuffed bear. Which he promptly burnt to a crisp and ate."

"Ah, the memories. Bloody beast bit my hand. Hurt for weeks." Ron shook the offended object absently and then stuck his hands in his pockets, mimicking Harry's walk. "Is Ginny with one of the twins?"

He already knew the answer, but Harry figured Ron just needed verbal reassurance that his sister was okay. After all, things had been cut rather close on his watch lately, and Harry wasn't sure Ron had forgiven him yet. Hermione had advised him to wait it out, so wait Harry would. "With Fred. He won't even let her go into the loo alone. Say, what are you doing here?"

"I have news."

"Oh? Good news or bad news?"

"Good, hopefully. Some kind of lead on the Typhoon case."

They entered the office complex together and made a sharp right to head into Ginny's office. Her door was open and Fred's legs were sticking out, for he had taken advantage of the little space that was left and was sprawled out rather unprofessionally on the floor, hands cushioning his head. Ginny was perched over her ever-present planner at the desk.

"A surprise visit, Ron? To what do we owe the pleasure?" Fred asked from the floor, making Ginny jump and send a startled look Ron and Harry's way.

"I came to herd everybody to headquarters. Bill's got something to show everybody."

"Bill does? As in Bill, our older brother?" Fred raised a sceptical eyebrow. "I didn't know he was involved in the Typhoon case."

"He's been involved for awhile." Ron shrugged.

"Since when?"

Since it looked like Fred was being ornery on purpose, Harry used the few seconds of Ron's distraction to lean in close to Ginny and ask, "Everything okay?"

She gave him a perverse look in reply, and he wanted to sigh. Things between them still weren't back to the equilibrium he had enjoyed before. "Everything's fine. You just startled me." Seeing his dubious look, she rolled her eyes. "That's _all_ it is, Harry. Relax."

He didn't want to, but it didn't look like he had a choice.

--- break ---

Hermione was waiting at the Tunnel headquarters with Fred, Ron, and Ginny when Harry tumbled out of the grate, remarkably covered in more soot than everybody else, and absolutely loathing the Floo Network. However, he stood up and brushed irritably at the shoulders of his jacket.

"Good of you to make it, mate," Fred said through his smirk, while Ginny bit her lips, looking as though she was torn between asking if he was okay and giggling at his state of disarray.

"Got out at the wrong grate," Harry muttered, annoyed that he still hadn't quite got the hang of it all down yet. This sort of thing happened to him at least once a month, and usually when he was direly late. He looked around the basement headquarters. Ron and Hermione had all of the lights on for once, and several of the monitors posted along the walls were active with movement, making the place seem scattered and almost frantic. "Anyway, so what's all this secrecy about?"

"One minute." Ron was standing over at the Glass Table, a mapping device that Fred and George had invented. Harry remembered the last time they had used it and glanced at Ginny. To his surprise, she had one hand on her side, right where the violent scar across her ribcage lay. "George and Bill are coming, too. Have to wait for them."

The grate coughed in warning as Harry wandered over to the Glass Table and placed feather-light fingers against the edge, hoping not to upset Ron's plans. The redhead was so busy in his concentration that he didn't even notice as first George, and then Bill exploded from the grate, both of them landing expertly on their feet and prompting another scowl from Harry.

"What's up with your clothes, mate?" George wanted to know as he wandered over to Harry and Ron. "Get in a fight with a soot beast?"

"Har har," Harry muttered. Ginny, who had just joined them, gave him a bolstering half-smile and rubbed his shoulder on her way to go stand by Hermione. "So—Ron, what's all this about?"

Instead of answering, Ron shoved a hand into his pocket and dropped a plastic baggy containing something silver on the table in front of Harry. It sent a ripple through his calculations on the table, but Ron didn't seem to mind. Raising his eyebrows, Harry picked up the bag and opened it. "What's this? A—a money clip?" He wasn't certain he was seeing things right, but Ron nodded tersely.

"An enchanted money clip," Bill added helpfully, stepping away from the Floo grate. "We found it the other day at the Tail, Tooth, and Scale Dragon Home—which Charlie now owns and is requesting help on—buried under some rubble."

Harry got the feeling that he was the last to know about Charlie's plans involving the dragon home, but didn't let that bother him. "How do you know it's enchanted? And what's it enchanted to do? Bite your finger off?" The last thought made him particularly nervous, as the silver item lay open in his palm, too near his fingers for comfort.

"I tested a spell on it, it's a transport device, and no, it won't bite your fingers off." Bill snatched the clip from Harry's hand, laughing a bit, and shot a beam of golden light at it with his wand. It hovered in the air in the centre of the group. "This, everybody, is your classic blackmailing device. What you do is you set up a transport spell between identical objects—"

"Linear or reciprocal?" Hermione wanted to know.

"This one is linear, but I have seen other such devices that are reciprocal, although not usually for blackmailing purposes." Bill waved his wand at the clip and it began to spin in gentle, lazy circles so that they could all get a better look at the money clip. "For instance, you could place a great deal of money into this clip, and it would be transported to another clip somewhere out there."

"You found this at the dragon home?" Ginny asked as Harry puzzled this over in his head. "If so, why were they sending money to an account owned by the dragon home? That's where the money was going, right? To the vault in the name of the dragon home?"

"Sam Werner is the last unnamed owner of the dragon home," Ron told them now, looking up from his calculations on the table. Fred was standing over his shoulder, watching his hands move over the controls. "We figure that somebody within the group of suspects is blackmailing the others, and Sam Werner is acting as a go-between."

"Then the person blackmailing the others would have to be Teddy Gingham, wouldn't it?"

"The Quidditch King?" George demanded incredulously. "What does he have to do with any of this? I thought this was all about Draco Malfoy, Sam Werner, and the Davenports."

"Not exactly," Harry said now, grateful that he was able to contribute to the conversation. It was as though everybody was coming up with information on his case right over his head, and the feeling was a bit daunting. "Teddy Gingham was the person in charge of arranging the Nottingham Typhoon, making sure that the Davenports got their first pick. He's got first rights to everybody's contract, including mine. And you have to admit, they picked a good team to cover anything up with."

"Humble, isn't he?" Fred cracked to George.

"So you think Teddy Gingham is blackmailing everybody?" Hermione asked, tilting her head to the side and shifting a bit on her feet. She had her hands stuck into the back pockets of her jeans. "About their Death Eater connections?"

"What else?" Ron shrugged. "Anyway, we don't know that it's officially Teddy Gingham. That's why I've been working on this for the past few minutes." He gestured both hands at the table, and everybody crowded close together to get a better look at the Glass Table.

"Erm, Ron," Ginny said, looking up. "It's blank."

"Not for long. Ron and I came up with a plan." Bill held up a small piece of black plastic that was roughly the size of a standard Galleon. "This is your run-of-the-mill tracking device from Gringotts, used to make sure that nobody is dealing in dirty business, as we clearly have here. Ron and I have been tweaking its frequency all week to where it'll be picked up by the Glass Table. The plan is simple—we're going to send this tracking device through the money clip and the Glass Table will show us where it lands, and hopefully some coordinates. Harry, would you like to do the honours?"

Harry took the tracer that Bill held out to him and held it in his fist for a minute, studying it. It appeared to have Galleon markings on it, down to a year date (1492). Shrugging, he grabbed the money clip out of the air and delicately pushed the tracer through the end. It gave off a short burst of heat and flashed blue for the briefest of seconds, but the tracer disappeared as Harry assumed it was supposed to.

"Now, if I've set this right…" Ron trailed off as movement began to swirl in lazy, pink traces across the top of the Glass Table. Segments of the surface began to rise higher and higher, slowly reaching eye level of those watching. As they stared, the rising portion moulded itself once, twice, finally becoming a recognisable figure. Lines shifted, formed, melded into other lines. From the midst of the Glass Table rose something that could be nothing but a very formidable manor.

Ron stooped down to read the minuscule writing on the front gate of the manor, and sighed. "Figures," was all he said. "Everybody suit up. Let's go get him."

A/N, the Second: Anybody care to guess? Do you even have to?


	10. Decisions Through The Tiger's Eye

Disclaimer: All characters viewed within are property rights of JK Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, Warner Brothers, and a slew of other brand names. I have no intentions of seeking any money from this. This is strictly a "What if?" situation, and not meant to make any money. So please don't sue. I don't think my parents could handle the legal fees.

A/N: Sorry about the delay between chapters. Between Nanowrimo, Germany, starting at a new college, a computer crash, and several interesting discussions with a llama trainer, it's taken forever. The next one won't. And _that _one will actually advance the plot. This one just covers some stuff that needs to be covered…like what exactly happened to Ginny…

PS – to the person who complained about me ragging on Americans…I _am _American. I'm just writing like the characters would talk.

**Chapter Ten: Decisions Through the Tiger's Eye**

"You just—you just went in and _snatched _him? Just like that?"

Nymphadora Tonks, known only by her surname to those closest to her, had only dealt with the Tunnel in small ways. She had been offered a top spot upon its inception, but had turned it down to head a platoon of Aurors. As far as Harry was concerned, she was doing a fine job: her platoon was the one that was always mentioned in _The Daily Prophet_ as the first one in and the last one out on all of the tougher assignments. If Tonks was anywhere near as scarred as Mad-Eye Moody, Harry couldn't tell. Scars just didn't matter to a metamorphmagus.

"Yes," Harry replied, shrugging as if it were that simple. He pulled his ankle up onto his opposite knee and glanced around at the bare walls of Tonks's closet-sized office. She hadn't bothered to decorate, but he figured that she wasn't there much anyway.

To tell the truth, though, capturing Draco Malfoy had been far from easy: the man kept Malfoy Manor almost as tightly warded as the Hutch. It had been an adventure working past all of the jinxes ingrained in the stones of such a stately manor—and then Malfoy had been ready for them. The assault team that Ron had assembled had come out unscathed for the most part, but it had been a five-minute battle while Malfoy and some sort of bodyguard had tried to protect themselves.

The bodyguard had been Stunned and left there, and they had hustled out of there with Malfoy's inert form suspended in the air between Bill and Harry. Malfoy was still Stunned, but they had left him sitting up in one of the many interrogation rooms that the Tunnel had set up in buildings all over London. An Auror had to be present for the interview, and only a Tunnel member had access to the headquarters. So they were going to keep this strictly confined to an interrogation building.

It was Harry's job to convince Tonks to come witness the interview, so that Malfoy's statement was legal in any British wizarding court. She had done similar favours for the Tunnel before.

Right now, though, she was looking at him with wide eyes, either perplexed or impressed. He couldn't tell. "You illegally broke and entered and then snatched an upstanding citizen of the wizarding community—"

"Upstanding citizen? The guy's a prat." Harry fought the desire to snort.

He learned then exactly why every one of Tonks's subordinates obeyed her without question as she levelled a cold look at him. He instinctively sat up straighter. "Prat or not, he's still a free citizen, and you just broke into his home and kidnapped him."

"We caused no permanent damage to the home, or its owner." Harry didn't mention the bodyguard. "We just want to question him, find out some facts about what exactly is going on behind the Nottingham Typhoon, and put him back in his house. Really. That's all."

Instead of looking appeased, though, Tonks just grimaced. "Potter, you realise just how illegal that is? That's a citizen's arrest, and quite an ambiguous one at that! I can't take a statement from that."

"We're not imprisoning the guy. No handcuffs, nothing. He's just sitting…out cold…in a room. We'll wake him up, give him something to drink, pretend like we're Aurors, and then return him to his home with a Confundus draught. Standard operating procedure." He hated the fact that they had to use regular procedures, but both Ginny and Hermione were adamant. No matter how much they had hated Draco Malfoy in school, he was innocent until proven guilty, and they had to respect that. "Look, we'll fill out all of the necessary paperwork for you and everything. All you have to do is sign your name."

Tonks chewed on her lip, a positive sign. He'd been pitching business ideas for the twins for years now. He hadn't been very good at it at first, but now he recognised when an associate was about to cave. Finally, Tonks looked at him levelly. "I'll do it on one condition."

"Name it." He couldn't technically offer anything, as that fell under Ron's jurisdiction, but he wasn't going to tell her that.

"I've got a case I need some help with. Had my lads on it for months, with nothing. Your Tunnel people might be just the ticket. I watch your interview, sign your paperwork, and your buddy Weasley offers to help me out." She didn't have to say which Weasley she meant, even though she called all of the Weasley brothers by their surnames. Even when she'd dated Charlie Weasley for a short time, she hadn't used his first name.

"What kind of case?" Harry wanted to know.

Tonks shrugged. "A classified one."

"All right. You and Ron can haggle out details later." Standing, Harry reached into his trousers pocket and withdrew a small card, slightly smaller than a standard business card. He extended this to Tonks. "Keyword to get to the building."

She made a noise that might have been a chuckle as she read the card. "The twins' idea?"

"Ron's, actually." Harry pointed his wand at the Floo grate and muttered the familiar incantation for flames. Helping himself to a handful of Floo powder, he stepped into the flame and shouted, "Troll bogies!"

Tonks was somewhat more graceful with her landing than Harry was, but they both made it without too many incidents in the Floo network. The grate opened immediately into a small room, easily recognisable as a reception room. There was a shabby sofa and two battered chairs shoved into a corner for the effect, but these were ignored by the cluster of people standing by the one decoration in the room: a large window, easily three meters across and two meters tall.

"Oh, you're here," Ginny said as Harry indignantly brushed soot from his magic-flak jacket. He was still dressed in his gear from the earlier mission, even though Ron had already de-briefed those who weren't Weasleys or Harry. "You made it just in time. Bill and Hermione are about to start." She gestured towards the window.

"Bill and Hermione are conducting the interview?" Tonks peered over Fred's shoulder to get a better look. "_That's _Bill and Hermione?"

The set-up of the interrogation chamber was like any other, Harry imagined. A short table took up most of the space in the room. On the side facing them was Malfoy, who was still Stunned and drooling a little for his troubles. He looked very much like the rat-faced boy that had attended school with them, even though he was almost as tall as Harry, and just as broad in the shoulder. Bill and Hermione, both Polyjuiced to look different, had their backs to the window, as they sat across the table from Malfoy.

"Took your time, didn't you?" Ron frowned at the pair of new arrivals.

"I need a moment of your time, Weasley," Tonks told him, ignoring the gruff comment.

Ron just waved his hand at her. "Whatever it is you want in exchange for this, consider it yours." He waved his hand again, this time to warn everybody to be quiet, and pushed a red button alongside the window. "Go ahead."

"Here we go," Ginny muttered.

Hermione stood and turned as Bill charmed Malfoy awake, presenting her profile to the viewers outside the window. Harry nearly raised an eyebrow. She had transformed from a bushy-haired brunette to a sleek blonde with striking blue eyes and a considerably narrower build. Hermione would always be on the lighter side of average, but she nearly looked like a Veela now. She began to pace as Malfoy sluggishly blinked out of his stupor.

"What the—where am I?" He was quick to lose the sluggishness once he realised that he didn't recognise the room. His eyes bolted from Hermione to Bill, in disguise as a large black man not unlike Kingsley Shacklebolt. "Who are you? Why have you brought me here?"

"Patience, Mr. Malfoy," Bill told him in a very deep voice. "Your questions will be answered shortly. I am Auror Lieutenant, Second Class Jim Barrens. My partner is Auror Admiral Twiggy Blackburn. We'd like to ask you some questions."

Immediately, Malfoy's chin came out in a stubborn jut. "I'm not answering anything without my lawyer. You've no right told me like a common criminal—"

"Mr. Malfoy, you're hardly common, and we're hardly holding you." Hermione flicked her blonde hair over her shoulder in a practised move that had all of the men in the room raising their eyebrows in surprise.

"Shut it," Ron snapped at them. "That's my woman you're ogling."

"She's practically a Veela. Didn't think she had it in her," George muttered behind Harry, who elbowed him for posterity's sake. "Ow. Git."

Inside the chamber, Malfoy was rapidly becoming more vocal in his protests for a lawyer. Tonks shot a dubious look at Harry, who shrugged and nodded at the room, telling her silently to wait until Hermione and Bill finished their goal. He'd seen them convince worse people than Malfoy to talk, after all. Ginny, who hadn't seen Hermione and Bill in action, looked on a bit nervously while everybody else in the room waited it out. She gnawed on her lip until Harry shot her a reassuring look. Raising her own eyebrows in return, she loosened her shoulders and bounced back and forth on the balls of her feet, much like an athlete about to face a long race.

"Even though I _know_ he's a bloody prat," Ron muttered, sidling up to Harry's side, "either my memory's deceiving me, or he's just worse every time I see him."

"I think the git's just got worse."

"Ah. Yes. Wonderful."

It would always amaze Harry exactly how well physical threat could manipulate a wizard who knew, quite logically, that his ability to use magic had dealt him the upper hand. They'd left Malfoy's wand on his person (charmed, so that Malfoy wouldn't know it was there); if Malfoy ever tried to sue over the interview, one of the lawyers (Ron employed several) would equably point out that he had been able to defend himself the entire time, and had chosen not to, furthermore. A couple of threatening looks from the Polyjuiced Bill was all it took to convince Malfoy that co-operation was a much better idea than complaining.

"What do you want from me?" he demanded waspishly of Hermione, who had been elected to do most of the speaking for the pair. "I haven't done anything wrong."

Hermione was faced away from him, almost speculatively. She tossed a lofty look at him over her shoulder. "Do you consider lying to be wrong, Mr. Malfoy?"

"I fail to see how my opinions on morality hold any water here, Admiral Blackburn." One thing Malfoy knew how to do, Harry realised as he watched now, was how to act as polished as the millions of Galleons left to him by his dead father dictated. He was furious to the point of being pale, but his posture was perfect as he sat in the chair, facing Hermione. "As I have stated before, I have done nothing wrong. That is not a lie."

Hermione whipped her head around to stare at him, her blue eyes boring into his. Her expression still severe, she shifted her gaze to Bill. "Jim? The evidence packet?"

It was hard to miss the minute flinch Malfoy gave at the word "evidence." That action alone caused Harry to grin. Their first breakthrough after what seemed like years of bank statements and other paperwork had finally come, and it had come in the form an instinctive reaction from a man he'd loathed since their first meeting.

His movements hard and sharp like a professional Auror, Bill set the suitcase with the evidence inside on the desk and opened it with a decided click. By the time that he began pulling out manila evidence files, Malfoy had regained some of his colour. He looked on impassively as Bill unloaded the contents all around him, setting the stage. His eyes lingered for an extra few seconds on the money clip contained within the plastic evidence bag, and stopped on a stack of photographs taken at the Claw, Tooth, and Scale Dragon Home.

"And at what exactly am I to look, Admiral?" he asked snidely. He picked up the photographs and flipped through them with an industriously bored look on his face. "Looks like somebody couldn't properly fireproof a bunch of old rubbish. What does this have to do with me?"

"The photographs you are holding," and Hermione's voice was clipped authoritatively, "are of the Claw, Tooth, and Scale Dragon Home. Obviously, it burned down some time ago. It has been abandoned since. If you will look at photograph serial number oh-two-four, you will notice a most peculiar artefact found at the Dragon Home."

Malfoy flipped to the appropriate picture and raised his eyebrows. The fact that his eyes once again flickered to the money clip evidence bag didn't escape Harry. "It looks like just another piece of rubbish to me, Admiral."

"That's where you're mistaken, Mr. Malfoy. That 'piece of rubbish' is actually a linear transportation facility, charmed for the sole use of transporting magical currency from one place to another." She rattled off two sets of co-ordinates. Malfoy blinked several times in quick succession. "The beginning co-ordinates were for the Dragon Home. You might be surprised to find that we tracked the charm to your address, Mr. Malfoy. Would you like me to go on, or would you like to confess now?"

"A magical transportation facility is hardly a crime, Admiral. But do continue. I'm quite curious to know what I've actually done wrong, since you seem utterly convinced that I've committed some unforgivable grievance against the Ministry." Malfoy folded his hands into a steeple and swept his eyes over the sea of evidence all around him.

"If he starts flirting with her," Ron growled, where the participants in the interrogation couldn't hear him, "I _will _kill him."

"Down, boy," Fred was quicker than Harry in reaching his younger brother, and clamping a steely fist on his shoulder. "She doesn't look like Hermione right now, and we need that information. So just shove it for a minute."

Ron shrugged Fred's hand off, but his face was still mutinous.

"Then you admit," Hermione continued in the room, "that this device belongs to you?"

If Malfoy was one thing, it was smooth. Harry gritted his teeth as his old school rival said, "Oh, not at all, Admiral. I've never seen it before in my life."

"Very well." Hermione pursed her lips as Bill stood up and moved behind Malfoy, leaning against the door with his arms crossed. The move did not get by Malfoy; he glanced over his shoulder once, a flicker of nervousness overcoming him. It was gone when he returned his look to Hermione, though. "If that is how you wish to proceed, so be it. In front of you, Mr. Malfoy, are several files pulled exclusively from the files of Gringotts bank."

Malfoy's eyes stabbed accusingly at Hermione. "I thought Gringotts didn't release its files to anybody."

"I'm an Auror Admiral, I can get any sort of clearance I want. And I wanted these." Hermione laid her hand atop a particularly voluminous file. "Like I was saying, these are all bank statements pulled from Gringotts bank." She pointed to another one. "This is yours. I also have here with me statements belonging to Samuel Werner, Theodore Gideon, Ulysses Davenport, and Davis Davenport, as well as the funds account for the Nottingham Typhoon. I believe you are one of the team's monetary sponsors?"

"Supporting a Quidditch team is also not a crime."

"Unless," George muttered outside, "you're Ron and get kicked out of three Chudley Cannons games in a row for trying to attack the referee." Harry, Ginny, and Fred sniggered into the backs of their hands as Ron's jaw tightened.

Hermione lifted one eyebrow at Malfoy now. They could see her profile; her lips were pursed, one eyebrow was higher than the other, her eyes were the picture of pure scepticism. "Extortion, Mr. Malfoy, is."

Immediately, Malfoy flushed. "You're accusing me of extortion?"

"The bank statements prove it all, Mr. Malfoy. In each are several transfers to Claw, Tooth, and Scale Dragon Home. What we think happened is that the vault fell in your control after your father's death and after Sam Werner gave up his ownership of the home, and that you have been using a servant or cohort to ferret the money from the vault to the home, a natural and logical progression, don't you think? From there, the money is transferred to your personal safe in Malfoy Manor. I have to admit, it's a brilliant way to launder money."

"Admiral," and Malfoy's voice was tight, restrained, "I'm a Malfoy. Malfoys have always been one of the wealthiest wizarding families in all of Great Britain. We do not need to, as you say, _launder_ and _extort_."

"You make a good point. However, the war changed that, didn't it? Your father's death and lack of magical insurance drained most of your account." Hermione pointed at the file once again. "Your mother's spendthrift habits have not aided, either. Neither has your gambling addiction."

"She's _good_," Ginny muttered to Harry. Even Tonks was watching the interview with a morbid sort of fascination now.

"My personal habits are not privy to the Aurors investigation, Admiral Blackburn." Malfoy started to rise to his feet, but Bill moved quickly into the sideline of his vision. Trembling with fury, Malfoy slowly sat down again. "I will be speaking to your superiors about this, mark my words."

Hermione's expression was downright chilly. "Noted." Deliberately, she picked up one of the Styrofoam cups on the table and took a long drink. Harry glanced at his watch. They must be getting close to the time to refuel on the Polyjuice Potion. "I understand that you're a busy man, Mr. Malfoy, so I won't mince words. We know that something is happening concerning the Nottingham Typhoon. If you come clean, we'll see about working you a deal. Exactly what is this Quidditch team hiding? And why are you blackmailing your business partners?"

"And here's where it gets interesting," Harry muttered to nobody in particular.

* * *

"Buggering git. Son of a—"

Hermione just looked resigned as Ginny paced the headquarters, her work shoes nearly wearing treads in the floor. The redhead was cursing up a storm, but nobody had tried to stop her because everybody felt like joining in.

"Bloody dead end," Ginny continued, shoving both hands through hair that was still charmed dark red. "Why can't we just use Veritaserum next time? He would have told the truth that way."

"Because we need to make sure a transcript of that interview gets to the Aurors, and because of the Wizarding Rule of 1719, all interviews taken under the influence of Veritaserum are null and void in any wizarding court," Hermione supplied tiredly from the corner where she was pulling off the Auror robes. Underneath she wore a conservative jumper and a pair of Muggle jeans.

Ron rolled his eyes. "One idiot tampers with a batch of Veritaserum and we have to pay for it for the rest of our existence," he muttered.

"Digby the Dark just proved that it's far too easy to tamper with Veritaserum, a conclusion they were rapidly beginning to suspect on their own." Hermione pulled her hair, back to its normal bushy brown, into something resembling a plait and deftly tied it off. "Ginny, stop pacing. You're giving me a headache."

The twins had gone back to work in their shop, and Bill had headed back to work. Unable to follow them to the headquarters because she didn't officially belong to the Tunnel, Tonks had Floo'd back to her office, but only after she and Ron had haggled out some details for whatever mission he would be aiding. In spite of his difficulties with the Floo Network, Harry had volunteered to fetch some carryout, leaving Ron, Ginny, and Hermione alone in the headquarters.

Ron was at his desk, a piece of furniture that contained what seemed like decades of growth—parchment, paper, used and new quills, empty ink wells, ink spots to go along with the ink wells, knickknacks, and various devices that he used to keep in touch with all of his agents. While the American Tunnel was set up more like a Bureau department, Ron ran the British Tunnel from that desk, trusting the many, many devices Hermione had charmed for him to keep him in touch with the men and women in the field. A second desk met perpendicular to his and groaned under the added weight of even more magical contraptions. It looked not unlike a Muggle office—Hermione had had the brilliant idea a few years before to purchase a slew of Muggle office products and charm them to work for whatever needs the Tunnel had. It was entirely illegal, but Ron had to admit, it got the job done.

Hermione crossed to the modified printer now as Ginny found herself a chair, moodily sat down. "Is this the transcript?"

Ron just made an affirming noise as he scribbled furious on a sheet of parchment.

"Did we put a lie-detector charm on the room this time?"

"Yes. Twice."

Hermione read down the roll of parchment that the printer produced, and sliced it off with her wand when it was done printing. "Lie-detector charm?" Ginny asked curiously as her friend scanned the page. "So you let me whine about Veritaserum, and yet you had a lie-detector charm on the place the whole time?" She looked moderately peeved.

"It's not the same concept at all," Hermione informed her absently. "With Veritaserum, you _have_ to actually answer the question. With a lie-detector spell you can just remain silent. It only tells which statements are lies." To prove it, she pointed at several lines in the parchment that had been printed in red ink. "And this statement here proves that Malfoy was blackmailing all of them, exactly how I said it."

"What's that?" Ginny asked as another sheet of parchment came out of the printer.

"The transcript we're sending to Tonks, the one without the lie-detector spell written on it." Deftly, Ron yanked the sheet free of the printer, rolled it up, and dropped wax on it to seal it. He deposited that onto the stack of bills, letters, and statements going out, and reached for a fresh sheet to begin writing another furiously scribbled letter.

"Where's the fire?" Ginny wanted to know.

Hermione was still scanning the transcript. "Oh," she said distractedly, "there was a breakthrough in the Fizzing Whizzbee scandal over in London. He's moving on it while he can."

"Lovely." Raising her eyebrows, Ginny left them alone and headed up to the locker room, the only free Apparition point in the building. One could Disapparate from a sixty-by-sixty centimetre plot next to the Glass Table, but never in. Nobody was ever sure of the headquarters' co-ordinates, so if you wanted to come into the headquarters, you had to Floo in. Harry, for one, absolutely hated the system, but he'd never said a word about it. Besides, the only reason he didn't like it was because he hated the Floo Network on principle.

The locker room was on the next level up, a room that was magically hidden from the apartment building's occupants. Although she had only been to the headquarters two or three times during her stay in England, Ginny was able to make her way into the room by memory alone. She peeled out of her magical flak jacket and carefully hung it up in her assigned locker.

The room contained a row of grey-green lockers along each wall, tall slim compartments used for storing all of the necessary Tunnel equipment. Ginny imagined that the set-up within the hitwizard locker room was similar—each locker contained magical flak jackets, sturdy boots charmed for all climates, wand holsters, charm capsules, and a small piece of wood, about as long as her hand was wide. It was Hermione's greatest device. Field agents took the wood piece along with them, and it turned into the perfect tool for whatever their needs: screwdriver, knife, quill, pen, fork, even toothpick. Hermione had created them sometime during her seventh year. Ginny was never without hers, even though it was supposed to only be carried while in the field.

Terry and Euan had lockers next to hers, for they were the three newest members of the British Tunnel. Ginny raised her eyebrows. Terry had stuck a picture of the Weird Sisters on his, Euan the logo of the Nottingham Typhoon. Almost everybody in the locker room seemed to have something personalising his or her locker…except for Harry and Ginny. She snickered to herself. Maybe she'd put up a photograph of Harry on hers as a joke. It might even make Harry turn red.

The thought of her and Harry as an item made her pause in the action of stripping out of her boots, as it always did. They really were an item. It had moved surprisingly fast, so quickly that Ginny sometimes stopped and just blinked at the changes that had overtaken her life since moving back to England. They'd hit their first big rough patch, had their first argument and everything. Well, first argument wasn't exactly what it was, Ginny reflected, grabbing her work shoes out of her locker and sitting down on the bench to put them on. It was more like a first war. If there was one thing she and Harry knew how to do, it was argue. They both came from backgrounds that gave them stubborn streaks kilometres wide.

She wasn't sure they would last through the rough patch. At times, it would just overwhelm her: knowing she'd spent hours in Dermot's company, knowing that a simple slip could have meant Harry's death. Harry was so tightly drawn into himself, and even he and Ron hadn't fully managed to make up yet. Things were just so tense all around. Something had to break soon.

"Ginny?"

Because she'd heard Harry coming, she didn't jump, merely turned. "Hey." The sight of him holding white carryout bags made her frown. "Wait…those don't look Floo-stained."

Harry actually smiled. "They're not. I Apparated into Ron and Hermione's flat. They don't have an Apparation lock on it anymore—times when they need to leave quickly, you know."

"Ron and Hermione's flat is in the same building as headquarters?" The thought nearly made her head spin. No wonder Ron and Hermione were able to spend so much time there. "Has it always been that way?"

"Yep. Officially, though, it's just Hermione's flat. If your mum or any official Ministry members ask, that is." Harry shook his head and set the carryout bags down on the bench by the door, crossed the room to sit by her. "What's the matter? Is it the Malfoy interview thing? If it is, don't let that get you down. I've seen Hermione work miracles with less than what he gave us. We'll figure out just what's going on with the Nottingham Typhoon."

She looked at him out of the side of her eye. "It's really sweet of you to try and cheer me up about that, but that's not it."

"Oh." Harry looked as though he wasn't quite sure what t do with this information. "What is it, then?"

"It's everything." Ginny shrugged. "You and me. You and Ron. You guys still haven't talked this Dermot thing out yet, and it's just…hanging there. You guys have been best friends for over a decade now. Why can't you just get over it? I mean, it's not obvious or anything, but you two really need to sit down and talk about what happened. We all did some really stupid stuff that day."

Harry cleared his throat, and wouldn't meet her eye. "I was letting him cool off."

"Harry, if he cools off any more, he'll survive better in the Arctic than the common penguin."

To her surprise, this invoked an actual smile, although Harry still wouldn't look at her. "I guess that's your way of saying things have been a bit _frosty_ lately?" he asked, finally looking over at her with a twinkle in his green eyes that she hadn't seen in over a week.

Ginny groaned. "Harry, you're good at a lot of things, but puns just aren't one of them. I'm sorry. Even you've got to have some failings, and that appears to be one of them."

She could try to predict his every move, had once been able to, but now he would endlessly surprise her. To her credit, she didn't squeak in surprise when his hand closed around her shoulder, or when he moved to cloud her vision. She did tense up when he kissed her, but relaxed when it quickly moved from a gentle kiss to an ardent promise of something more…

"All right, you two. Break it up. Nobody wants to see that before dinner."

Ron's rude interruption had both springing apart like guilty teenagers, but the redhead only shook his head and stole the takeout bags from the room, grumbling under his breath as he went. "Guess we should go get some food before he eats it all," Harry said, his cheeks a bit pink. "Although I kind of don't want to. That was nice. We—we haven't done that in over a week."

"You're cute when you're shy." But Ginny stood up and brushed off her slacks. "As much as I want to stay up here and continue, you're right. Ron will eat all of the food if we leave him to it."

"So? We've got food back at the Hutch. And they won't miss us for a few minutes."

It was, Ginny thought, an extremely good point. She shrugged coyly and then grinned. "A few minutes, though. I like Chinese food, so we'd better make this quick."

"It's a good thing I got Thai food, then. I get you to myself for longer."

* * *

"Next time you tell Ron we're sleeping together, could you not do it while I'm on the same planet?" Harry asked later as he unbolted the front door to the Hutch.

Ginny's laughter pealed out. "I told you he wouldn't even hear me! He was too busy shouting about the Cannons."

Since what he was convinced was his near-death at Ginny's hands during a rather interesting dinner, Harry had been understandably paranoid around all things Weasley. While he didn't discredit the notion that Ron could have easily tuned Ginny's statement out in his fury over the Cannons loss, he cared too much for his mortality to fully embrace it. "Would you quit worrying!" Ginny laughed as they entered the Hutch, shedding their raingear. Sometime during dinner, buckets of rain had started to drench the streets of London. Both were wet and bedraggled for it. Even with the rain cloaks, their outfits clung wetly to them. "He's hardly going to challenge you to a duel for my honour. I'll be the first to tell you that I lost that a long time ago."

"If I knew it would only be a duel, I'd be fine," Harry replied, taking her cloak and hanging it beside his on the cloak hanger.

Ginny preceded him into the kitchen and immediately snatched up the towel she'd used that morning, slung over the back of one of the dining room chairs. She began to rub it through her sopping hair, never breaking her mirthful eye contact with him. "And just what would you expect him to do?"

"I dunno. He's been married to Hermione for awhile now. I trust he'll come up with something creative." Seeing nothing remotely appetising in the icebox, Harry began to paw through the paltry contents of the pantry. "Why'd you tell him we were sharing a bed? You're doing this to give me grey hair, I just know it."

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Ginny chided, finger-combing her hair. Abandoning all pretences of modesty, she peeled out of the drenched robes, revealing a peach tank top and Muggle jeans underneath. The clothing, while considerably dryer, was still damp. "I think you'd look perfectly rakish with grey hair. Or dashing."

One hand still on the pantry door, Harry looked over his shoulder at her. "Which?"

Her face was the picture of confirmed innocence as she rifled through the posts that had been delivered in their absence. "Rakish or dashing? Either."

"But not both?"

"Even you have your failings."

"How kind of you to remind me of them. Again." Abandoning his quest for sustenance in the pantry, he grabbed one of the envelopes, checked the postscript. "Why isn't Neville home? He's usually in by this hour."

"Neville's meeting his ex-wife for dinner to discuss something about the divorce, remember? He's been dreading it all week. Oh, for heaven's sake, Harry, get out of the wet robes before you give yourself pneumonia."

Raising his eyebrows, Harry obeyed, stripping down to the Muggle clothing he'd changed into after dinner. "A drying charm would have worked just as well," he pointed out, depositing them on the counter with a squelch. "I owe you for that comment to Ron. You scared about three years off of my life with that."

"Oh yeah?" One eyebrow arced up in a non-verbal challenge. "And just how do you intend for me to pay?"

He was quick enough to catch her off-balance, his arm snaking out and wrapping around her shoulders. She didn't give a single thought to escaping, however, when his lips found hers. He meant to tease her, just a playful kiss, but she kissed him back with such ardour that he nearly forgot himself right there and started ripping at her clothes like some demented character from the soap opera shows that Mrs. Weasley listened to on the wireless. With a great deal of difficulty, he stopped the kiss, pulling back and away from her. He had a hard time focusing his eyes and realised, somewhere in the heat of the moment, Ginny had grabbed his glasses.

She grinned and put them on when he blinked at her. "Wow, Mr. Potter, you really can't see, can you?"

She was a blurry mass of red hair and freckles to him. "No," he admitted, smiling sheepishly, pushing wet hair behind her ear. "I can't."

Carefully, she set the glasses on his nose, and then leaned back to get a good look at him. He watched her, amused. "Yeah, you looked funny without them, anyway." She let out a very unladylike oath as Harry, deciding that they needed to be somewhere other than the kitchen, scooped her up as though she weighed no more than a small sack of potatoes. "Harry, what on earth are you doing?"

"Getting out of the kitchen. It's inappropriate to ravish you in front of the food."

"To _ravish _me?" Ginny burst out laughing, a feat that didn't make it any easier for Harry to hold onto her. "Well, look who's all prim and proper now." If anything, the look Harry gave her then showed just how far from proper his intentions truly were. Ginny giggled. "Well? Are we going to stand here all night? Comfortable as this is, I imagine it might be taxing your strength."

"You sure are bossy," Harry remarked as he headed toward the sofa in the living room.

"And you're randy."

"Well, can you blame me? There's no food, the Quidditch game is over, I don't want to look at anything having to do with the Tunnel for a week, and you're pretty." Without any ado at all, Harry dropped her, laughing as she shrieked and landed on the couch. He plopped down next to her and reached past her giggled protests, pulling her to him.

He liked to think that he had come far since his (rather pathetic) first kiss with Cho Chang. After her, he'd had a string of girlfriends, none of them very serious. Ginny would be the first woman in four years that had lasted for more than a couple of weeks, save for Monique (it seemed a requirement for Quidditch stars to date a French supermodel at some point or other, and Monique was his own particular flavour of disaster). He'd had his share of embarrassing moments when it came to snogging: outright boredom, the one girlfriend that had wanted to hold deep discussions in lieu of snogging, an unmentionable story involving cream cheese and the most outrageous woman he'd courted. But things were different with Ginny.

For one thing, she kissed like she meant it. A positive side effect was that he didn't feel like a major heel when he was kissing her, which had happened before. She seemed to enjoy it just as much as he did, even though she laughed when his kisses moved down her neck (he especially didn't mind because it inspired her to bite his ear). Neither seemed in any hurry to deepen it, though his hand did sneak under her shirt, tugging at it. The sheer sensation of bare skin against bare skin was electrifying, dragging them both farther into each other's embrace.

There was too much clothing in the way. Harry trailed a line of kisses down Ginny's neck, working at the buttons on her blouse as he did so. His fingers fumbled, and she shuddered.

Immediately, his hands stilled. "Are you okay?"

"It's nothing," Ginny was quick to assure him, but she squirmed a little. He peered hard at her face. "Really, Harry. My back was in a bad place. I'm good now."

Maybe it was the fact that he'd spent so much time in her company, or because he understood panic so well, but he was able to detect it hiding in Ginny's voice. Outwardly, she looked as composed as a woman could be in such a situation, but Harry could see it. "You're sure?" he asked, starting to ease off of her. "We don't have to do this. I won't mind if you don't want to."

Ginny paused for a second before her expression became considerably exacerbated. "Where on earth would you get a silly idea like that? I'm fine." To prove it, she pulled his head down to hers.

It definitely wasn't his imagination that she shuddered again when he peeled the shirt away from her. Unsure now, he kept going, hands roaming…

Until the shuddering didn't stop.

Harry jerked back, lifting his head. The panic wasn't in his imagination anymore—Ginny was crying, silent, huge tears that had her shaking. He rolled off of her and onto the floor hard enough to jar his knee. "What is it? What's wrong? Did I hurt you?"

"No—no, it's nothing you did—" Still, she scooted up to a sitting position, drawing her knees tightly to her chest and contracting into a very small ball. Her entire face was red, and she didn't bother to swipe at the tears. Scared now, Harry moved back onto the couch and reached for her. She flinched away, and he dropped his hand. "I—I can't do it—I'm sorry—"

"That's okay," Harry soothed, dropping his hands into his lap.

But Ginny shook her head. "No, it's not."

Harry stared at her, wondering exactly where she'd found that absurd notion. "Sure it's okay if you don't want to—" His mind blanked of all polite alternatives. He cleared his throat. "It's okay if you don't want to shag. We've only been dating for a couple of months."

Once again, Ginny shook her head, still refusing to look at him. "It's _not _that."

He felt fifteen again, faced with a crying female and not sure what exactly to do about it. So he pushed his hands through his hair and stared at the coffee table, as though it could provide some answers. "Then what is it?" he finally asked, looking back at Ginny.

She just shook her head miserably and curled up even tighter.

Fighting the urge to sigh, Harry wordlessly stood up and left the room, heading into the kitchen. Was it something he had done? Was his kissing really that horrendous? His bloodstream was still jumping with lust and confusion. To calm down, he planted both hands on the edge of the counter, stretched out his back, kept his head down while he took a couple of deep breaths. It took a minute, but eventually he calmed down long enough to think straight and ponder his options.

He shook his head as he crossed to the cabinet that he and Ron used to store the things that Hermione disliked. Without Ron living there, the whiskey bottle had started gathering dust. He wiped it off, rubbing his thumb over the label, and pulled two equally dusty glasses off of the top shelf. He rinsed those off in the sink, shook them to get rid of some of the water droplets, and took all three items into the den.

Ginny looked up from her agonised ball when he set the whiskey on the coffee table. "I hate that stuff," she sniffled, her voice deepened by the tears.

"Good." Harry poured it first into one glass and then into the other. "It'll help more that way."

"Getting me drunk won't help anything."

He shrugged. "Noted." He held the glass out to her anyway. "Drink up."

She stared at it like it was poison, but at least the tears had stopped. In fact, she looked more curious than miserable now, intrigued at his strange behaviour. "I'm not drinking that."

"You know, when I got out of Hogwarts, I had a lot in my head," Harry observed, ignoring her. "All this stuff just swirling around in there. It made it hard to think. I spent so much time trying to think that I stopped talking, basically clammed up. Sure, Ron and Hermione dragged me out to do stuff, but I was pretty much a walking corpse for all the talking I did."

He continued to hold the shot glass out as he talked. "You could tell Hermione was getting tired of it. She just had this look on her face all the time. You know—that one we decided looked exactly like McGonagall." He got the smallest of smiles at this comment, although Ginny was still wiping at her cheeks. "So one night, she comes over to our old apartment. The dive near Diagon Alley we had for two years. Ron's not home and I'm sitting next to the wireless, listening to the Cannons play. So I can tell Ron about it later. And she marches right in and plops this big bottle of firewhiskey in front of me and says, 'I don't care if I have to poison you to do it, Harry Potter. You're talking to me tonight.'"

"She got you _drunk_?" Ginny asked, morbidly fascinated.

"Not even. A couple of shots and she had me telling my entire life story." He closed his eyes at the memory. "She was brutal. Had me crying like a baby before the hour was up. I told her stuff that I kept secret since my first year, and not all of it was very good. But she just let me talk, asked questions whenever I didn't want to."

"So you just talked?"

"For six hours. When I woke up the next morning, I felt like Fred and George had used me for Beater practice, my throat hurt, and my pride was sore. But Hermione shows up at ten o'clock and says, 'Get dressed. We're going shopping, and then you're going to go talk to the Chudley Cannons coach.'"

He set the glass on the table in front of her, picked up his own. The burn was something only Muggle whiskey could inspire, but he didn't care. "So you asked what happened to change me, and that's it. Hermione made me talk. Now it's your turn."

Ginny stared at her glass for a long time before she said anything. Her eyes were red-rimmed from the crying, her nose dyed red. She looked haggard, her hair mussed from Harry's hands. Finally, she picked up the shot glass, gave a shrug, and knocked it back. Immediately, she writhed, coughing wetly. Harry rescued the shot glass from meeting its match on the hardwood floor. "That tripe," Ginny coughed, "is disgusting!"

"That's the point," Harry said, smiling. "Feel up to talking yet?"

She glanced at the bottle, looked as though she'd cheerfully jump off a cliff instead. "I guess."

"You could have another shot if you wanted…"

"No—no, I'm good."

Still, there was a lengthy pause before she spoke, and she fidgeted. Finally, she gave in. "I'm sorr—"

He held up a hand, cutting off her apology mid-word. "I forgot: Hermione had only one rule. I wasn't allowed to apologise. You're not, either."

It earned him a scowl, but he didn't care. Finally, Ginny took the whiskey bottle, poured herself a shot, knocked it back. This time she didn't cough; she merely wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand and scowled. "The last person I slept with was Dermot."

Harry's sudden headache reminded him exactly how hitting the ground from a very steep dive felt. Dermot. Of course it came down to Dermot. One couldn't have a serial-killer stalker for an ex-boyfriend without there being repercussions. Strong as she was, Ginny was no exception.

"It wasn't like it was a one-time thing, either," Ginny continued, her voice dull. "We lived together for several months before I started getting anywhere near the truth. You know what the sad thing is? If I hadn't come so close to figuring it out, he might have asked me to marry him. And I—I would have said yes." She reached for the whiskey bottle again, but Harry moved it out of the way. It wouldn't help either of them if she got soused on that knowledge. "I thought I loved him."

It wasn't just the fact that she'd been forced to flee for her life that night in nothing but a towel, Harry realised now. The person who had hurt her and was still hurting her was somebody that she had trusted enough to want to start a new life with. It was almost enough to make him lose his own faith in humanity. He couldn't begin to imagine how she felt.

"Tara gave me about six months and then insisted I started dating again," Ginny continued. "The first time I dated, it was this investment banker bloke. Stan something or other. He was…charming." She twisted her hands together. "It didn't go past one date. It was like that for months. I'd go on dates and find something wrong with all of them, some flaw or other. He talked too much. He liked peas. I hate peas." The admission nearly made Harry smile. "Finally, there was one whose little annoying habits I could stand. He stuck around for about a month."

"Does Mystery Bloke have a name?" Harry prodded.

"Nigel," Ginny said after a minute. "His name was Nigel. He was a lot of fun. Liked to dance. It wasn't like he was my all and everything, but we at least had a good time together. Until he wanted to sleep with me."

The thought made him jealous, but his face didn't change.

"I told myself it was coming. I even think I convinced myself that I wanted it to happen." Ginny pushed at her hair with both hands, belatedly trying to finger-comb it. It was still damp from the earlier rain, although Harry had forgot any discomfort. "And then, we went to his apartment…and I couldn't even make it through the door. I just…I kept seeing that night in my mind. It played over and over again for like two days after that. I'd lie down to go to sleep and then it would just start all over."

She fell silent, her hands stilling and falling uselessly into her lap. "Are you seeing it now? That night?" Harry asked quietly, not sure exactly what to say.

She shook her head. "Just bits and pieces, and only because I'm thinking about it."

"Then what's the…"

"Problem?" The last thing he was expecting was a hollow laugh, but there it was. "I don't know. That's the funny thing—the scene wasn't playing in my mind at all. Just…fear. I was scared I wasn't going to stop seeing it again."

"So you're afraid…of being afraid," Harry surmised, remembering his own fear of Dementors. "You're scared of the feeling of being hurt."

Ginny visibly winced. "When you put it like that, it sounds ridiculous."

Harry agreed: when put like that, it did sound ridiculous. But he'd seen the very real fear and panic in Ginny's eyes moments before. It didn't take a specialist to see that she was still dealing with the emotional scarring, even though she probably wouldn't ever admit it to herself. Harry poured himself a shot, contemplated it a minute. Finally, he downed it, set the shot glass back on the table. "It's not ridiculous. It's human."

Ginny slumped back. "We get over one problem and I throw another obstacle in our path," she muttered, her body limp against the back of the couch. "What a pair we make, eh?"

"What a pair we make." Slowly, he stood up and stretched. When he glanced at the clock, it was to realise that the hour was later than they had anticipated. "Should probably get some sleep. The Davenports are going to be out for blood tomorrow."

"They're always out for blood."

It took Ginny a couple of minutes to move from her slumped position on the couch, but eventually she picked her way to their bedroom door, her movements slow and wearied like a warrior returning from battle. Instead of going inside, though, she just leaned against the doorframe and looked over at him. "Look, Harry, I know you were looking forward to what nearly happened tonight. And I want you to know that it's not you. It's all me. In my head."

Harry made no reply at first, so Ginny started to head into the bedroom, a look of dejection heavy about her. Finally, Harry cleared his throat. "I wasn't lying when I said it was okay earlier," he told her. "It's fine. We'll take it slow. I'm not going anywhere for awhile."

Ginny just smiled sadly at him.

Twenty minutes later, sitting at the table with a bag of crisps and actual firewhiskey (which wouldn't have worked on Ginny due to the fact that she needed copious amounts of magical substances for it to affect her bloodstream), Harry was still deep in thought. The debate in his head broke, though, when Neville entered, trying to be quite despite juggling an umbrella, a briefcase, and what looked to be a manila folder. He dripped water all over the floor when he came into the kitchen. "Evening," he greeted Harry glumly.

"Evening," Harry replied just as glumly.

Neville took his time depositing the objects in his arms onto the counter, puzzling at Harry's drying robes beside the oven. Finally, he shucked off his rain cloak, and shook his head. The hair that had been plastered to his head stuck out in wet spikes. "Care to share, mate?" he asked, nodding at the firewhiskey.

"Get a glass. There's plenty." He was halfway to drunk and would pay for it in the morning, but he didn't care. And he didn't mind having a drinking buddy. Neville looked as though he needed it.

"Thanks."

For a long stretch of time, neither talked. Neville was frowning fiercely at his firewhiskey, taking sips from it occasionally. Occasionally, one of the glasses would send up a lick of flame, a curious trademark of firewhiskey. The kitchen was silent apart from the noise of the flames and the sound of the men fidgeting occasionally.

"So," Harry finally asked after awhile, breaking the silence, "how was dinner?"

"French." Neville shook his head. "Even after she's left me, she treats me like my money pouch is bottomless. Which it isn't. Bloody governmental taxes due soon and she still makes me pay for a twenty-Galleon meal."

"Hasn't changed a bit, then?" Harry asked sympathetically.

"No, I think she's got worse."

"Ah."

Silence fell again as both men took a drink. "What about you, then? Why're you out here, drinking yourself into a stupor?" Neville inquired, swirling the whiskey around in its glass and sending up tiny spurts of flame.

"My girlfriend," Harry said, staring at his glass morosely, "is afraid to sleep with me."

"Ah."

"You?"

Neville stared at his drink, with the sparking green flame hovering a few millimetres off of the liquid and the tips of the flames just reaching the rim of the cup. "My ex-wife," he finally said, "is taking me to the cleaners. For pretty much everything I own. And she's got a better attorney than I do."

"I think I finally understand why they say women drive men to drink so much," Harry remarked, shaking his head.

Neville sighed. "I'll drink to that."

With that, they did.


	11. A Fool and His Gold

**A/N: Once again, I'm apologizing for the amount of time it's taken me to getthis chapter to you. It took a lot to write, mostly because I'm introducing my last and favorite plotline. From here, it's two or three chapters until our wild ride is over. And you have my word that it WILL be done by July 16th. Seeing as my summer plans just fell through and crashed into a puddle at my feet, I'll have time. Even if I have to chop the chapters up and make it six or seven chapters instead of two or three.**

**Disclaimer: As always, it's not mine. JK Rowling owns all, and what she doesn't have, you can bet that AOL or Time Warner or whatever it is nowadays has their paws all over it. **

**Chapter Eleven: A Fool and His Gold**

The Nottingham Typhoon meeting room was a place where all seven team members (and seven alternates, although the team members rarely saw the alternates) had cashed in multitudes of hours. They'd all unofficially picked their seats at the first inter-team meeting, and had kept those. Harry's seat was in between Bear and Frank, across the table from Melinda. They normally left the seat at the head of the table open, but today, Ginny took up residence there. She was standing now at the chalkboard that was usually used to highlight team plays.

On the board now was written "American Quidditch Open" in Typhoon red lettering.

"You have all of your uniforms and other pertinent items issued to you in your equipment lockers," Ginny told them now, resisting the urge to pace around the table. She'd never had a problem giving speeches or briefings—and she'd had to give quite a few briefings while working for the American Tunnel. Her day job as an organiser meant talking to people on all different levels. And the people of the Nottingham Typhoon had more or less become her friends. So she was completely at ease walking around this room, decorated liberally with promotional posters for the team.

Bear raised the hand that held his quill. All of the members, to Ginny's amusement, were taking notes and treating this like a classroom. "We're wearing different uniforms for the Open?"

"Yes. Our home team uniforms are markedly similar to the American National Quidditch team, so the Davenports have had the robe designers create a primarily grey robe for the tournament."

Stacy snickered. "Grey's not exactly my colour, Amy."

"Oi, shut it," her twin sister told her. "Grey looks fabulous on both of us."

Ginny just shook her head at the pair and smiled. "At any rate, we've put hundreds of Galleons into those uniforms. They come with all the standard Quidditch uniform specifics—impossible to tear, won't stain, spell-washable, automatic adjustment to the weather, etc."

"I love wearing clothing that's smarter than me," Tad muttered to Bear.

Ginny ignored him and turned back to the board, flicking her wand at it. "Dates for the Open," she explained when a list of numbers appeared. "Because it's a tournament and they want it over by the date specified, the rules have been altered slightly. First team to either catch the Snitch or reach six hundred and fifty points wins the game."

Immediately, seven frowns appeared. "A points limitation?" Bear wanted to know. "That means that there's only so many points that the winner of the tournament can have overall. There's never been a ceiling on points before."

"It's more for time restraints than anything else," Ginny informed him, shrugging. "They need to free the stadium up for renovations after the tournament takes place. Which means getting us out of there before the official American Quidditch season starts. They're changing a lot of things around for the tournament to take place."

"Like what?" Harry asked, tapping his quill.

"Installing more seating, and changing the entire floor plan to fit three pitches instead of just one. That way, three games can take place at the same time—one on the main pitch and two on pitches they've installed on the sides." Really, Ginny knew that Harry was more than aware of the current and original floor plans for Tropicana Stadium than he let on—he'd been poring over them every night for the past two months—but she played along with the charade.

"Do you have a list of where we'll be playing?" Bear asked, scribbling notes.

Ginny shrugged. "I know our first game will take place on the south pitch, which is one of the side pitches. Beyond that, we'll find out where we play next, based upon whether we win or lose."

Even though she hadn't given out that much information yet, Bear's parchment was half-full already. "So it's based on elimination, rather than overall ranking?"

"Overall points gained will determine your position in the end, but if you lose your first game, you're out of the tournament and it's unlikely you'll take first place." Ginny shrugged and cleared the dates off of the board. "You've all been issued an official copy of the rules."

"And I expect you all to read them," Bear warned, his position of captain lending authority to his voice and inspiring Stacy to mutter, "Anything you say, _Captain_."

Rather used to the strange tension between Bear and Stacy as of late, Ginny shrugged that off before any sniping could break out and turned back to the board. "You should all have a list of the teams playing. I've just received word that we're kicking off the tournament on the south pitch, playing against the Honolulu Honu."

Puzzled looks flew around the table. "Where's Honolulu and what's a Honu?" Frank finally voiced for the entire group.

She'd already looked it up herself, or she wouldn't have known the answer, even though she did know where Honolulu was. "Honolulu is the capital city of Hawaii, which is that one island state. And a Honu is the Hawaiian word for seaturtle."

"Really inspiring to name your team after a turtle," Tad snorted.

"Don't let the name fool you. I talked to several PR representatives from the tournament yesterday and they all seemed to think that the Honu is probably the fastest team entering the Open." Ginny twitched one shoulder in a version of a shrug she'd picked up from Tara and shuffled the stack of parchment she'd brought into the meeting with her. "I've already arranged for rooms at a local hotel in the area, as well as travel across the Atlantic. Your Transcontinental Portkey passes should be arriving via owl any day now. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to book you all on the same portkey, but a majority of you will be in groups together. Now, you know the rules about going into a foreign country—the magical embassy is located down the street from the stadium, and I expect you'll go there if you run into any problems with the law—which you won't."

She bit her tongue over the plans that she and Harry had made to travel to the Open with Ron, Hermione, Neville, and the Darrows. The rest of the Typhoon would be taking a luxury portkey the morning before her group left.

"We could be back as early as a week after our departure date, or three weeks after that, depending your placement in the tournament," Ginny warned them, "so don't make any plans until after the last day of the tournament."

Stacy raised a hand. "What sort of press activities have you lined up for us?" she asked, knowing to expect the inevitable. Ginny was good at her job, and that meant that promoting the team was going better than expected.

"Bear's got a couple of wireless interviews lined up, the rest of you will, of course, be expected to answer a few questions at the original press conference, scheduled for…" She flipped through her stack for clarification, even though she knew all of the dates by heart. "The night before the tournament begins. Attire for that will be formal robes, and no drinking beforehand." Her eyes flitted briefly to Bear, who had a reputation of showing up to press conferences with firewhiskey on his breath. He just raised his eyebrows in a return challenge.

"I'll have all of this written down for you in handy little packets," she finished, "but I thought it might be best you actually listen to it before you see it in print. Any final questions?"

Of course there were questions—one couldn't expect to move a professional Quidditch team across an entire ocean for a tournament with different rules without there being questions—but Ginny answered them patiently and quickly. Before long, the meeting was adjourned and the team was dismissed from a long day of briefings and practice. She turned down the offer of attending a drinks mixer with Bear and the Harrows, for there was still a pile of work waiting for her at home, most of it on the wedding she was planning for Angelina and Fred.

"I just need to collect something I left in the locker room," Harry told her sheepishly, standing and flattening his hair. "Then we can get out of here. That okay?"

Ginny shrugged and shuffled the pile of paperwork into the overfull binder she had been carrying around as of late. "That's fine. I'm not in a hurry."

Even with the upcoming tournament increasing tension in the air around the team by tenfold, it hadn't taken much for the others to notice that something strange was occurring between Ginny and Harry. Stacy had asked Ginny about it once or twice only to receive a quick shake of the head. Ginny imagined that some of the men had questioned Harry, as well, but if that had happened, he wasn't keen to tell her anytime soon. It was only when Hermione, sensing trouble, had pressed the issue that Ginny relented to tell anything at all.

"We just can't seem to get off on the right foot, Harry and I," she moaned when Hermione had asked, nearly two days before. "Every time we find our niche, something happens to blow it all to pieces."

"Well, what happened this time, then?" Hermione had asked, logically working her way through the situation. Although Ginny couldn't have known this, she had gone to Harry first, and had received a zipped lip for her troubles. Ginny, she had figured, was a much easier target, since they'd been girl friends since Hogwarts. It took awhile for Harry to talk, either way, especially if it was anything close to regards to his feelings. Old habits died hard. He'd rather lament over a Toxic Butterbeer with Ron and Neville than spill all of his secrets to her.

"Oh, nothing much," Ginny had answered, rolling her eyes over the coffee mug. Hermione had invited her over to get away while the men went to a Quidditch match together, taking the evening off of Tunnel duties. They were sitting in the kitchen of Hermione and Ron's flat, enjoying some of the spiced coffee Hermione had picked up on some mission or other. It made for a cosy evening. "Just me."

"You?"

"Things were…getting intimate." Even at twenty-two, she couldn't quite voice it, and blamed her mother for such prudence. "Everything was completely fine. We both expected it would come sooner or later. So we're on the couch, snogging." That part, she had to admit, had been nice. Harry Potter definitely had the kissing thing down pat, but whenever had she expected less?

"And things started to get—a bit too heavy?" Hermione looked puzzled. Underneath that, she looked almost downright uncomfortable, and Ginny imagined that discussing Harry was quite like talking about a brother for her. Since she didn't particularly want to know details of Ron's sex life, she sympathised. However that didn't stop Hermione from asking. "Was he doing something…wrong?"

"No, not at all." Ginny shook her head irritably. "He was—fine. It was me. I just…I couldn't get thoughts of Dermot out of my head. Over two years, and it won't leave me alone."

Hermione's eyes widened understandingly. "You haven't…since Dermot?"

Ginny just shook her head mutely at that, and stared into the coffee.

Hermione had fallen silent then, perhaps trying to comprehend the entire situation in the quiet way she had gained. What had once been a bossy adolescent had somehow transformed itself into a self-assured woman. Where she had once blurted out the answers because they always seemed to be on hand, Hermione now took time to contemplate. Finally, she cleared her throat. "Was it anything like Dermot?"

"No!" Ginny was quick to shake her head. "Not a thing—Dermot…he was good." As much as it hurt her to think about the relationship she'd had with him, there were certain things she couldn't deny. But that didn't mean she had to talk about them ad nauseam. "But with Harry, it's a lot more—exciting."

"Well, what happened, then?"

The explanation was embarrassingly simple. She jerked both shoulders, not quite a shrug, not quite a protective movement. "I panicked." Since Hermione's sympathetic look had seemed to demand more, Ginny sighed. "I just…I couldn't stop seeing that scene in my mind. Right after I woke up, you know. The funny thing is when it happened, when I woke up while Dermot was setting up the scene, I thought I had just fallen asleep on the job. It took me nearly a minute to realise that it was happening to _me_. And then…I couldn't stop the panic. I grabbed a towel and just…Apparated out of there. Didn't even think to Stun him or anything, for all the good my training did." She shook her head. "But I can't forget that…feeling of discovery."

"So, you panicked because you felt like it might happen again," Hermione surmised.

"Irrationally," Ginny muttered, her ears burning. It had been a full week since the fiasco on the couch, but that didn't stop her face from turning bright red every time something even so much as reminded her of it.

"How did Harry take it?"

"Better than I might've. He tried to get me drunk." It was an exaggeration, but it had the desired effect. Hermione's eyebrows shot up into her hairline. "No, I'm joking. But he did give me whiskey. It was his idea that I talk it out." She bit her lip when Hermione smiled. "He told me that was what you did to him that helped him start to get better."

Hermione had risen then to clear away the empty coffee mugs and retrieve a tin of biscuits from beside the icebox. "When you store up something as voluminous as that, it either eats you whole or you explode. I just shoved Harry off the fence. He did the rest." This drew a sardonic look.

"The manners, the polish, the schmoozing, all of that was Harry? All of it?"

"Certainly. I just had a…how do I say this? A hook through his nose, helping him along." Hermione shrugged, completely unabashed about the manipulation she'd done to help Harry. "That's not the issue, though. So you two were getting intimate, you panicked, and…"

"And now things are strange between us." Ginny sighed. "He's been perfectly understanding about the whole thing, and he doesn't push, but I think I've thoroughly confused him. So things have been weirdbetween us lately."

Hermione frowned. "Have you tried talking to _him _about this?"

"I figured time would smooth it out." Ginny rested her chin on her arms and stared at the wood grain pattern of the tabletop. "Which was a great plan—until it didn't work. Now it's like there's this great big _thing _in between us, and I'm not sure how to deal with it. The nightmares came back and there's no way Harry _doesn't _know about those…"

"You have nightmares?" Hermione asked, interrupting her. "I thought Dermot didn't actually attack you."

"He didn't." _He just came close—too close._ "It's hard to explain. Dermot didn't actually attack me, but I spent so much time working on that case. I was good…because I could see through the eyes of the victim, help figure out what had happened in each scene. It had never given me any problems, but when it finally did start to happen to _me_, Ginny Weasley, and not just another victim, I guess that's when it really hit home."

It had hit home, and in a way that could jar the very soul, she thought now, waiting outside the locker room for Harry to retrieve whatever it was he had left behind. Two days after her conversation with Hermione, she was still contemplating what she had said to her friend, and what impact it had had on her. She had panicked not because she had physically been attacked…but because it had almost been her. Even two days later, it didn't make any sense.

"Hey." Harry's greeting caught her off guard, but she smothered her surprise by not jerking at the sound of his voice. "What's up?"

She shrugged one shoulder. "Just thinking."

They started heading towards the Apparation room, which had been built the week before to avoid people reckless Apparation in and out of the stadium. Since the game between the Demented and the Typhoon had been a free match, Apparation wards hadn't been a priority.

Harry tucked his hands into his pockets, looking sidelong at her as he walked. "About the plans for the Open? The meeting went well. Everybody seems to be more excited about this than when we first found out."

"Yes, it did," Ginny answered, bemused by her own thoughts. Forcing herself to focus on the topic, she glanced over at him. "Do you have any idea what's going on with Bear and Stacy? They're flat-out sniping at each other now. The sexual tension is so thick you could cut it with a slicing spell."

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she instantly wished she could call them back. Harry, on the other hand, barely did anything more than pause at the threshold to the Apparation room. He looked at her, green eyes serious.

"Yeah, I guess you could say that."

Right then, Ginny cheerfully could have swallowed her own tongue. Deciding that it was better to just nip this thing in the bud, she thought quickly and asked, "Hey, instead of going home to where Luna and Neville are doubtless having another one of their little dinners, why don't we go out tonight? I could use a drink."

Harry's smiled slowly. "Yeah," he said, and Ginny felt they'd probably just taken the first earth-shaking step towards fixing things. "Yeah. That'd be nice."

"Just not Tony's," Ginny was quick to add.

* * *

As the American Quidditch Open nosed to just nine days away, tension clung so tightly to the air of the stadium that Harry sometimes felt like just trying to wring it out like a sponge. That wouldn't have worked, though, so he continued to fly the long hours, to weight-train and run when the team met for physical training, and to invest many hours in the locker room, debating different tactics and strategies with Bear. Sometimes Dave Davenport stayed for these meetings, but mostly, it was just the team. They all preferred it that way. 

Unfortunately, that didn't mean getting through practices was any easier. With Ginny, the Open, and the Tunnel fighting for space in his head, he had a lot to think about, and it struck at the most inopportune moments.

"Your head's in the clouds again, Potter, and that's bad!" Tracy Harrows shouted at him as she whizzed by, her Firebolt Mach III practically leaving a smoke cloud in her wake.

Harry mentally kicked himself and shoved the nose of his broom down. Ahead of him on the Pitch, the Chasers were all bantering the Quaffle about at high enough speeds to make his hands hurt at the mere thought of having to catch it. Apparently, break was over, and nobody had thought to inform Harry.

He loathed American Quidditch rules, he decided, streaking down and under Stacy's flight path, staying out of the way and yet still on hand. Although his main priority was searching for the Snitch, he was expected to be on hand for the Chasers. The Seeker acted as a fourth Chaser whenever it was needed, evening out the field a little bit. Harry, who strongly believed that his only job in the game should be to find the Snitch and occasionally pull off a dive to aid his team, disliked the fact that he would have to work more closely with the others—and essentially play two positions.

Not that they were a bad lot, he was hasty to correct himself. He liked them well enough that both he and Ginny attended their functions whenever they had some down time (which wasn't very often, granted, with Ginny planning two weddings and still working a full time job, and with Harry in charge of the American Quidditch Open plans and helping Ron and Hermione out with other Tunnel cases when they would let him). They'd even had the rest of the team over to the Hutch for drinks after one practice. Bear had become a temporary fixture to the sofa for the night.

"Potter's day-dreaming again," Stacy sing-songed as she flew by.

Harry ground his teeth, and forced his mind back onto the Quidditch practice. If anybody noticed that he was distracted after that, they chose not to comment. Harry even managed to pull off one of Stacy's trademark moves, catching the Quaffle and going into a barrel-roll simultaneously. As he was pulling out, though, a flash of gold off to the side disoriented him enough so that he dropped the Quaffle—right into Mel's waiting hands. "Nice, Potter!" she shouted, and flew off with it as he raced after the Snitch.

The closer the Quidditch Open drew, the more the team ribbed each other, Harry observed. He and Ginny were the butt of several jokes determined to make each redden (although Harry only succumbed half of the time). Frank and Tad pulled outlandish pranks on every other member of the team—and each time, the team retaliated. Soon, it had escalated into a prank war that even Fred and George would have been proud to call their own.

A glance over at Tad was all it took to discern that he still had the purple spots that Mel had felt were fair retribution.

"Bring it in, bring it in!" Bear called, waving the team over to his post in front of the hoops. Immediately, Frank and Tad tucked their bats into holsters on the legs of their practice gear and flew off after the Bludgers. This usually meant a race, and today was no exception. Tad beat Frank by the narrowest of margins, inspiring cheers from the rest of the exhausted team. "Okay, good practice, mates. I'll have a strategist or somebody important like that review the recordings and we'll go over it tomorrow morning at eight. Remember, drink water tonight, try to avoid going into any dives that might give you some foreign and exotic disease that doesn't have a cure, and take care of yourselves. We leave in thirteen days, and I want a healthy team."

The best thing about Bear, Harry decided as he flew to the ground to jog off into the locker room, was that he kept the end-of-the-practice speeches short and to the point. Granted, they would spend until noon the next morning going over strategy, but for now, Harry was glad for the freedom. He hurried through a shower, changed into a fresh outfit, and almost broke records getting back to the Hutch.

"Is practice out already?" called Ginny's voice from the kitchen when Harry let himself into the flat.

"Actually, we ran over time," Harry called back.

Neville stuck his head around the corner of the wall separating the kitchen and the living room. "Oh, good, you're here," he said, relief visible in his voice. "Come save us. Your girlfriend is using us for slave labour."

"Us?" Harry asked, picking up the mail from where Hedwig had dropped it beside the front door.

"Yes—Luna's over for dinner."

Harry's feet didn't even give pause. Having Luna over for dinner was becoming a common occurrence at the Hutch. She had yet to become a fixture, although Ginny always prodded Harry to ask Neville if he and Luna were dating. Harry always refused. Neville's dating life wasn't something he particularly cared much for, especially since Neville's soon-to-be ex-wife was trying to rob him of every Knut in the bank.

"Hello, Harry," Luna greeted in her misty voice. She and Neville were seated around what appeared to be a small mountain of parchment and envelopes. Even as she spoke, Luna's hands flew, folding a sheet, stuffing it into an envelope, passing the envelope to Neville, who was working with hot wax and a signet stamp.

"Hello, Luna. I trust you're well?" He was exhausted from practice; the day had been chilly, and the windburn was already irritating him. If his tone was a bit formal, it was masking the crankiness that usually accompanied exhaustion.

Ginny was at the stove, the phone in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other. Fire shimmered under two different pots. "Hope you don't mind spaghetti. I just threw some together," she told him as he kissed her cheek on the way to retrieve a bottle of Toxic Butterbeer. Although there were moments when things turned strangely sour between the two of them, they had finally started to relax. She lifted an eyebrow at his drink selection. "Was practice that bad?"

He shrugged. "Feeling a bit sore. Need something to relax." He nodded at the phone as he uncapped the bottle, purposely ignoring Bear's orders to drink lots of water in favour for the pure need of alcohol. "Who's that you're calling?"

"Oh." Sheepish because she'd forgotten that she was even holding the phone, Ginny laughed. "Hermione called about five minutes ago. Asked to drop by for awhile. She's at the flat all alone tonight since Ron's apparently over in Derbyshire, taking care of something with one of his agents."

"And what's all this?" He swept the hand holding the bottle towards the stacks upon stacks on the table.

"Grunt work," Neville grumbled, dropping hot wax onto another envelope and sealing it.

"Angelina's new invitations finally came in today," Ginny explained. "We had to send them back, remember? She let Fred order them, and of course he had to make some kind of joke making fun of Percy on them."

"And the bright orange ink against the green background probably wasn't wise, either," Harry recalled.

Ginny rolled her eyes at her absent older brother. "The new ones just arrived today and these two offered to help me out. In return, I'm making Mom's famous spaghetti sauce."

"You should help, _mate_," Neville said pointedly, shoving a stack of unfolded invitations in front of one of the empty chairs. Although he was normally mild-mannered, his expression clearly told Harry that since it was Harry's girlfriend forcing them to do this, _he _had to help. So Harry shrugged and rolled up his sleeves. In truth, he wanted nothing more than to sit back and listen to the Quidditch match on the wireless, finish his Toxic Butterbeer, and go to bed early.

He was still stuffing envelopes when Hermione arrived at the Hutch. Although he'd told her time and again that she didn't have to knock, she did anyway. On the rare nights that Ron stayed over, however, that courtesy mysteriously disappeared. This nearly made Harry smile as he rose to answer the door. "I've got it," he told the others.

His amusement with Hermione came crashing down to the region of his knees when he pulled the front door open. The look on her face said more than she ever needed to. Immediately, he checked the hallway for danger. Seeing none, he pulled her inside. "What's wrong?"

She sniffled, though her eyes were dry. "I need to talk to you."

She could have ordered him to walk across hot coals and he would probably have acquiesced gladly, and offered to do a jig as well. Right now, he just nodded. The protocol that he and Ron had set up after the Dermot attack came first. "What was Ron's nickname for your first date?"

She rolled her eyes, and some of the anxiety disappeared behind her exasperation at the question. "Vicky. I'm me."

"Good. Wait here."

"Where's Hermione?" Ginny asked when Harry walked back into the kitchen alone, pulling on a windbreaker.

Instead of answering right away, he took a swig of his Toxic Butterbeer and kissed her on the cheek. "Change of plans. Hermione wanted to talk to me about something, so we'll head out for a drink. That okay with you? You didn't need me for anything?"

"No, no, it's fine, go ahead." Ginny was clearly biting her tongue, wanting to ask more questions, but Harry was grateful that she stifled them. "Neville and Luna are here, and if they go out, I'll call one of the twins. Call if you're going to be too late? I wanted to go over some of the final Open plans with you before we have the group meeting."

Although Harry wanted to tell her that the discussion of plans would probably have to wait for the next day, he just nodded and put the Toxic Butterbeer back in the icebox before heading back out. Hermione was waiting for him in the front hallway; she jumped when he came around the corner and received a queer look for it. Without a word, they headed outside and down to the street.

"What is it?" he asked when they were a considerable distance away from the Hutch. "Is something the matter with Ron?"

"No—Ron's fine." Hermione had her hands in her pockets and her face turned towards the ground. Her eyebrows were knitted together over her eyes, providing a contemplative air. "At least, I think he is. He's supposed to call later, if he can. Things are a bit…strange…over in Derbyshire right now, which is why he's there, overseeing it personally."

Harry bobbed his head in understanding. Since starting up the Tunnel, Ron had always preferred to oversee the bigger projects himself, no matter how much time they took. Three years later, he was getting the hang of it down.

"So what's the matter, exactly?" he asked, nudging her with his elbow. "What's wrong?"

Hermione didn't answer as they headed up the street, towards another block of flats owned by Harry's landlord. There was a pub nestled in between the two buildings that Harry visited whenever he didn't feel up to dealing with Tony. He knew the bartender who worked Tuesday nights there, a Muggle named Steve that was putting himself through Uni. Even though Steve wasn't working that night, Harry still headed to the building, holding the door open for Hermione.

"What do you want to drink? I've got a few pounds."

The pub was the same one that could be found on any other street corner. Pictures for football teams that Harry had once been able to recognise covered the walls, memorabilia from those same teams crowding in for space. It was preternaturally dark, the only bright space being a single television set that sat in the corner with several men gathered around it. Harry was reminded of rabid Quidditch fans gathered around a wireless, and nearly broke into a smile over this. Hermione's news, however, pressured away any signs of mirth.

"Mineral water?" she asked hesitantly, as though she'd never been to a Muggle pub before. Harry nodded and wound his way to the bar to order their drinks while Hermione slid into the booth in the corner, making certain that her back wasn't to the room. Aurors and Unspeakables were paranoid about having their backs to a room—and rightfully so.

When Harry headed over with her water and a pint for himself, she was drawing patterns in the tabletop with a fingertip. For anybody else, this might have been mistaken for idleness, but Harry knew better. Hermione's mind was doubtless a whirl of activity, even though she gave the impression of being completely placid and almost bored.

"So," he began, sliding the water over to her, "what's on your mind?"

"About a thousand different tasks and things I probably forgot to do," she replied absently before taking a long drink of mineral water. Harry raised an eyebrow. "I'm pretty sure I forgot to feed my cousin's goldfish like he asked me to—he's out of town—but I think I overfed the goldfish yesterday, so he should be fine. I need to get Ron's dress robes professionally mended before the next Ministry ball. Speaking of which, why on earth did you two decide it would be funny to try and light a bonfire while in dress robes? And drunk?"

"Seemed like a good idea at the time," Harry replied honestly, smiling behind the pint. "I seem to recall that Ministry ball being the most boring one ever. A bonfire was just the thing."

He received a scowl for his answer. "That's the same thing Ron tells me," Hermione muttered.

"Must be true, then. Either that, or we're both great big liars."

"Or gits."

"Or gits," Harry conceded, his smile now too big to hide.

"At any rate, my best spells won't work on them now that he's completely botched them to pieces. I meant to drop them off at Madam Malkin's today, but the plumbing broke again and I spent three hours spelling it just right and I'm pregnant."

Harry very elegantly choked on his drink. "What?" he coughed, thinking that he had misheard.

But he hadn't, it turned out. Hermione calmly wiped the flecks of beer that he'd spewed everywhere with a napkin and looked him straight in the eye. "I'm pregnant," she repeated, slowly as though he were daft.

There was a great discord between Harry's thoughts and the rest of him, so great that he gaped for several minutes before Hermione smilingly reached over and pushed his jaw up to the rest of his face. "You can breathe now," she reminded him.

"Pregnant?" he repeated, trying to wrap his mind around the concept. Hermione…pregnant? Going to have a baby?

Granted, she wasn't the first in their class in Hogwarts to pop out a kid. Seamus had swept Lavender Brown off of her feet the moment they'd left Hogwarts. Granted, the Finnegans were both members of the Tunnel (Lavender was in charge of the branch over in Prague, and Seamus was her right-hand man), but the thought of Hermione—and Ron—having a baby hadn't even occurred to Harry.

"Earth to Harry?" Hermione asked weakly when he continued to stare.

"That—that's wonderful!" he burst out suddenly, and found that he meant it. He nearly dove across the table to give her a hug, but thought better of it. He'd never been around any pregnant women—he didn't know what could break them. So he remained seated. "That's fantastic news! What—what did Ron think?"

Hermione paused, just long enough to let Harry know that something about the pregnancy was already amiss. "I haven't told him yet," she said, evading his eyes.

"Oh." Puzzled, Harry couldn't think of a single reason why she would tell _him _first and not Ron, unless she had found out that day while Ron was still over in Derbyshire or… "It's…his, right?"

Asperity surfaced so quickly that he had his answer without Hermione snapping, "Of course it is! I'm not a scarlet woman!"

"Then why on earth would you tell me first?" Harry asked, eyebrows dropping low. "I mean, this is fantastic news and I'm flattered that you told me first—but it's Ron's." The minute the words were out of his mouth, it hit him. Ron was going to be father. His best friend was going to be a father. Merlin, for that matter, his other best friend was going to be a _mother_. It was staggeringly huge in proportion to everything that had occurred that day that Harry suddenly found that he needed another drink. "Shouldn't Ron be the first to know?"

"What's going down in Derbyshire right now is important," Hermione explained patiently, and Harry felt that she wasn't exactly saying it aloud solely for his benefit. "I've been bursting to tell somebody for about six hours now. I thought about maybe telling Ginny, but then I realised that I might need your help."

"And you have it—with whatever you need," Harry promised quickly, setting aside the beer to take one of her hands in his. The kid might be forty before Harry got over the shock and awe of the fact that his two best friends were going to be parents. He'd only just got around to accepting their marriage, he thought somewhat uncharitably, and now Hermione was just throwing new and foreign things like pregnancy at him. Didn't she realise how unfair that was to his psyche? He needed time to adjust to these things, curse it all.

It was a mark of how much she'd rubbed off on him over the years that he made a mental note to pick up some sort of book about it, or to at least ask Ginny. Being a woman and the daughter of a woman who'd borne seven children, she probably had a better grasp on the whole shebang than he did.

"Erm," he continued, "what exactly _do _you need?"

Hermione chewed her bottom lip. "Well," she said slowly, taking a deep breath. "Moral support, mostly. Once I tell Ron, we're going to need to tell Molly and Arthur that we've been married this whole time—not that Molly doesn't already suspect. The woman's as cunning as a Dervish at times—and having their favourite adopted son around might soften the blow a little."

Mrs. Weasley had never had any trouble scolding her boys while Harry was in the room, but Harry bit his tongue over this information. "Ginny and I'll go with you whenever you want to break the news," he promised, squeezing her hand. "And then I'll obligingly drag Ron off to a pub so you and Ginny can pick colour schemes for little junior or juniorette's new room. I haven't seen any proof yet, but she swears up and down she's brilliant with colour schemes."

"You're awfully quick to agree for the both of you," Hermione observed, unable to hide her sly look.

Harry conceded the point with a tilt of his head. "Seeing as I like to keep my innards intact, I'll have to double-check with her before I can make any promises set in stone, but you have my word that at least I'll be there. And I can offer you ten-to-one odds she'll be there, too."

"That's good enough for me." Hermione shrugged one shoulder, more of a reflexive jerk than anything else. She stared down into her drink (untouched as of yet) with such concentration that Harry frowned. Before he could inquire further, she raised her head and tried to smile. Unfortunately, it came out as a grimace. "But that's not the problem. I can handle the Weasleys. It's the Grangers that are the problem."

Harry, who'd never heard of Hermione's parents causing her any sort of problems since she'd steadily begun to distance herself from them during fifth year, frowned quizzically. "What about them?"

"It's just that they're so old-fashioned!" This exploded from Hermione, quite possibly what had been pressure-cooking inside her skull since she had received the news that she was indeed pregnant. "By getting pregnant before I get married, I'm bound to cause a scandal in the hallowed halls of Granger fame."

"Erm, Hermione, you _did_ get married before you got pregnant," Harry pointed out. "All you have to do to avoid becoming the 'scarlet woman,' as you put it earlier, of the family is just tell them that. I'm sure they'll…" He trailed off, finally catching up to exactly what Hermione meant, and sighed. "Oh. Right."

Though the decision for Ron and Hermione to get married would have been welcomed on all sides of their family, from adopted family like Harry on to their actual parents, the two had made the pointed decision to keep the whole affair a secret. With Hermione's security clearance being so high in the Ministry as an Unspeakable of unspeakable rank, and Ron being a natural target as the leader of the Tunnel that he was, it was just logical that they keep it under wraps. Neither wanted their relationship to be used by enemies that might capture and torture them. Though it had made sense at the time, situations had unravelled a bit so that it didn't really matter whether Ron and Hermione were legally married or not. An enemy that took enough time to study them would automatically know that the two loved each other above all else.

Harry constantly told them they were crazy for not telling at least the Weasleys, who would understand perfectly well, about the marriage. The Grangers, however, were another matter. Hermione had purposely distanced herself, especially after completion of Hogwarts. She had lied to her parents, telling them that she had an average job in the Ministry, working for some random department or other that she had undoubtedly fabricated. After what they had been through while she was a constant target of Voldemort, Hermione didn't wish her parents to know that she had just elevated her target rank by marrying the leader of an underground organisation, or that she herself was one of the most endangered government agents.

"Well," Harry said now, chewing on the inside of his cheek while he thought about it, "why not tell them you married Ron secretly because you were worried they'd disapprove?"

"Because they've made it clear on multiple occasions that they _do _approve of Ron." Hermione let go of Harry's hand to bury her head in hers. "I've been trying to think of excuses of why we would have hidden the marriage since I found out about the baby, but nothing."

An idea had germinated in Harry's mind, almost out of nowhere. He stared at Hermione for a minute, contemplating it and everything he knew about pregnancy (which, he admitted freely, was pathetically little). "How far are you along?" he asked, changing the subject.

"Two weeks, give or take a day or two." Hermione shrugged. "Might be a bit early to tell for a Muggle—I think. I'll admit that I haven't been keeping up to date on their technologies as I should be, what with the Fizzing Whizzbee Scandal and some things at work taking up most of my time—but I did an age indicator spell and that's what it told me."

Harry calculated some dates in his head, and nearly sighed at the results. With chasing down Dermot at the American Quidditch Open and trying to work through the lack of breakthroughs on the Nottingham Typhoon case, he and Ginny were swamped to begin with. He didn't feel what he was about to suggest would gain him any favour with Ginny. _At least she hasn't sent the invitations yet, _he thought, and mentally adjusted the Kamikaze helmet he'd all but donned since the crazy notion of just how to help Hermione had crossed his mind.

"I've got an idea," he told her. "But you have to give me a month."

Later that night, when he had dropped Hermione off at her flat and made sure she was safely locked in and all of the wards were active, he trotted home to the Hutch. He had too much on his mind to Apparate, but he made good time anyway with a light jog. It felt good to clear his head a bit.

Ginny was waiting up for him in the living room with a thick day-planner spread open on her lap. Neville and Luna were nowhere in sight. "You're sweating," she observed, puzzled.

Harry nodded and collapsed into one of the wing-backed chairs. "Jogged home from Ron and Hermione's."

Frown lines appeared between Ginny's eyes. "All that way? Harry, that's nearly seven or eight kilometres. And you've practice tomorrow."

"No matter. I'll be fine." Harry shrugged that off, although his limbs were already starting to feel sore. He wanted nothing more than a shower, but there was work to be done. "I've got some news for you, but first…did we send out the invitations for Ron and Hermione's surprise wedding yet?"


	12. Sapphire Swirl

A/N: Wow, I didn't even realise this, but I need to check my chapters over better. I said something about Seamus and Lavender working the Prague branch of the Tunnel together. Well, that would be impossible, seeing as Seamus is playing for Dublin Demented. So it's good old Dean to my rescue.

Disclaimer: None of this actually belongs to me. Okay, granted, I based Chris off of a character I had, but he doesn't technically belong to me in any sense of the word. There are lots of things that don't belong to JKR either…Tropicana, and some other stuff that I can't remember right now.

Chapter Twelve: Sapphire Swirl

If Ginny had thought she might have even a single moment alone with Harry to discuss exactly what would be occurring at Tropicana Stadium in Orlando, Florida, she was sorely mistaken. From the night that he had stumbled in, tired and sore, and proposed the outlandish idea of throwing a surprise wedding for Ron and Hermione just two days after they were due to return from Florida, the Hutch had become a hub of activity. Key players in the Dermot scheme at the Quidditch Open practically took up residence on every free space—Ron and Hermione, Fred, George, Neville, and even Luna all jockeyed for space. It didn't help that random Typhoon players kept dropping in. Two nights before they were all slotted to leave for Florida, Ginny had a great idea.

"Let's go _somewhere else_," she told Harry, who'd innocently wandered into the bathroom to brush his teeth. Upon finding out that Ginny was in the shower, he'd tried to make his escape, but Ginny hadn't let him. She'd snaked one wet arm around the shower curtain and grabbed a hold of the back of his T-shirt. "Today. When we have our final meeting. Let's go somewhere else."

Harry, who was trying not to send too many furtive looks at the shower curtain lest she suspect the rather inappropriate road his thoughts had been travelling for several minutes now, made a noise in the back of his throat and reached for his toothpaste. "It does get a bit crowded," he relented. "Where would you like to go?"

"Out. Maybe Tony's."

Although they avoided Tony's on the nights when they were looking for a romantic evening on the town, Harry figured that one of Tony's back rooms was probably the perfect location. Tony had always kept his back rooms spacious and clean, with well-stocked whiskey and scotch. Harry reckoned that the German businessman kept other associates than the Tunnel because he and Ron rarely requested use of one of the rooms.

"Sure," he agreed now, spreading toothpaste onto his brush. He could have just used a tooth cleansing spell, but somehow his mouth always felt cleaner after using toothpaste. "I'll ask Ron to smooth over the details. He's in the kitchen now. Probably enjoying the only coffee he'll see in awhile."

Morning sickness had struck Hermione with such force that even the smell of coffee made her nauseous. In order to keep things running smoothly, Ron had sworn off the black substance—whenever she was around. Since she had been called in early to consult on a case at work, he had immediately fled to the Hutch, where the forbidden substance was kept up in full stock. To Harry's amusement, he'd already greedily sucked down two cups of it. The Quidditch star wondered just how late his friend would be staying up tonight.

"I really wish he'd convinced Hermione to stay home for this," Ginny said over the sound of the water. Harry grunted and stuck the toothbrush in his mouth. "If Dermot gets wind that we've got a pregnant woman in our ranks, he'll try especially hard to use her as bait against me, somehow. That's my niece or nephew in there, you know."

Harry didn't bother to garble a reply that the child was also his godchild, figuring that she wouldn't understand him through the toothpaste lather.

"And we're all going to be so exhausted from the tournament and hopefully catching Dermot, and she needs to be well-rested for her 'wedding,'" Ginny continued. "We're cutting it a bit close." She turned off the faucet and Harry heard the unmistakable sounds of her squeezing water out of her hair. "Would you be a dear and pass me my towel?"

Automatically averting his eyes, Harry held the floral number at the edge of the shower curtain. Ginny grabbed it and pulled back the curtain a minute later while Harry was rinsing the toothpaste away. She had wrapped the towel around her, her hair straggling wet and down her back. For once, she'd left the guise as Amy Mason on overnight, so the bare shoulders were dark rather than freckled, and her hair looked a rich, dark brown. Harry tried not to gape, but Ginny's amused look told him that he was far from successful.

"Just where did you say you were going today?" she asked, reaching up and pulling her hair behind her and then over one shoulder. Instead of squeezing past him to go into the bedroom to change, she sat down on the edge of the tub, towel and all, and reached for a jar of lotion that she kept on the back of the toilet.

"Rosenheim," Harry replied. "It's near Munich. In Germany."

Ginny's patronising smile told him that she knew exactly where Munich was. "You'll be back before four, right?"

"If my portkey leaves on time, I will be." As much as he hated travelling by portkey, he saw the necessity of taking one across the channel to Germany. It would save him hours upon hours in Apparation lines and slim down a trip that should take several days to only a few hours. "I just have to ask a favour from an old friend, and then I'll meet you at the Leaky Cauldron at four o'clock. You've got the co-ordinates, right?"

"They're in my day-planner," Ginny confirmed, rubbing lotion into her left calf and unintentionally giving Harry a clear view down the top of his towel. Modesty demanded that he look away, but his reflection was so bright red in the mirror that he stared at the sink instead. By doing this, he missed Ginny's amused grin. "You'd better hurry if you want to get Ron to drop by Tony's and still catch your portkey."

"Right," Harry muttered, hoping it was just his imagination that his voice sounded strangled. He dropped his toothbrush into the waiting cup beside the faucet and took his time drying his face off with a towel.

Ginny stood up before he could make his escape and wrapped her arms around him. In such close quarters, he was aware of just how little she was wearing, and that thought—combined with the fact that he knew her protective older brother was sitting in the kitchen, slurping down coffee—made him sweat. Ginny's mischievous look wasn't helping matters.

If he emerged from the bathroom a little more tousled than he'd entered it, Ron took no notice. The redhead was sitting at the kitchen table, ignoring the stacks upon stacks of things Harry and Ginny had compiled there from two different cases and weddings. He had a copy of _The Daily Prophet_ open and was perusing the sports section for scores and the different matches taking place. When Harry entered the kitchen and decisively poured himself a glass of very cold water, he didn't even look up. "The Cannons aren't doing as well this year," he said conversationally. "Their Seeker is rubbish."

"Jones isn't that bad," Harry pointed out. "Just easily distracted by shiny things."

"You know, that should be precisely what makes a good Seeker, not a rubbish one," Ron groused, turning the page to the business section.

"You'd think." Harry shrugged. "Think you could talk to Tony and finagle one of those back rooms of his for this afternoon? It's getting a bit crowded at the Hutch recently. Granted, you're all welcome to come over tonight, since we have that dinner ball that we have to go to, but we should at least get out of the Hutch this afternoon.."

Ron had yet to look up from the paper. "I'll drop by and talk to him after my meeting with Lavender and Dean. They're in town."

"Well, give them my greetings and congratulations and whatnot." Harry finished gulping the water and set the glass in the sink. "I'd better go if I want to catch my portkey on time."

"Might want to hide that mark my sister left on your neck before you do that," Ron advised.

Harry whirled around fast enough to smack his elbow solidly on the icebox door, and swore viciously. Ron finally looked up from the paper to raise an eyebrow at him. "What?" he asked innocently, and took a sip of coffee. "It was just a bit of friendly advice. Though I still don't know why you have to go all the way to Germany."

"It's a friend of mine's birthday," Harry lied. He and Ginny had agreed to keep both Ron and Hermione in the dark about the impromptu wedding they were throwing. Hiding Hermione's pregnancy had been out of the question, especially when the morning sickness hit. But Ginny had gone to Ron expressly for the promise that her brother and his wife wouldn't tell either set of parents until after September third.

"You could just be like the rest of the human race and send a card," Ron pointed out. "We're extremely busy here, and you going to Germany now could set us back hours."

Harry looked pointedly at the newspaper in Ron's hands, which was currently open to the funnies. "I'm sure you can manage without me until at least noon. If it falls apart after that, I'll illegally Apparate myself all the way from Rosenheim to this very spot."

Ron rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "Fine, fine, go, leave us with your tons of paperwork."

"That was the plan, yes." Adjusting the folds of the Muggle shirt he was wearing, Harry tossed his friend a wave as he departed. The instant he was outside of the Hutch, he muttered a concealing spell in the direction of his neck and jogged down the stairs.

* * *

Though they met at Tony's for the final planning meeting for the Open, afterwards, the Hutch was a flurry of constant movement. Harry, who was trying to both pack and prepare for a night on the town in the midst of all of the action, sympathised for the first time in his life with sardines in a can. The Hutch had never felt small before, but now with six people doing a variety of different chores, it was minuscule at best. He and Neville were both packing (Ginny, obviously the most sensible of the three flatmates, had already packed her luggage), and somehow that meant constantly squeezing by Hermione or Ron finalising plans in the living room, or getting past Ginny at the stove or Luna at the table. Ginny was cooking partly from necessity and partly to burn off some nervousness, preparing a feast for the others that wouldn't be going out to Emma Barnaby's fancy ball that night. Luna sat at the kitchen table, scribing furiously at a long letter.

"Instructions," she told Ron when he asked. "I came home following the rhodondins, but my father just gave up his job as editor because he got married again, you know. Of course, it's mine now, so I'm making sure my assistant knows to feed the Revolving Invisible Newts while I'm gone."

Ron goggled. "All of that is for your pets?"

"Revolving Invisible Newts are very rare," Luna pointed out, looking up mistily from the letter. "And they're very shy. I haven't even seen mine rattle the leaves in their cage or whistle, which I'm told is commonplace for them. And they've rejected all of the food I've tried to give them so far."

Hermione looked almost stricken as she bit back the urge to inform Luna that perhaps the Revolving Invisible Newts weren't exactly alive—or real, come to think of it.

Harry wandered into the kitchen, a neck tie thrown over one shoulder and two more dangling from his hand. Though he wore fancy slacks and a white dress shirt, his feet were bare, and he had yet to try and tame his hair. He held the neck tie selection up for Ginny. "Which one, do you think?"

"Hmm." Ginny looked away from the linguini to study the choices. "The grey and green one."

"Slytherin colors?" Ron wrinkled his nose.

"What? They look good on him?" Ginny shook the wooden spoon in her older brother's direction. Surrounded as she was by everybody in their work robes or jeans, the inky black ball gown she had chosen for the night's festivities looked decidedly out of place.

Harry glanced down at the tie in question, shrugged, and threw it across his shoulders. Tossing the other two across the back of a chair, he began to work at knotting it.

Since studying the brochure for the Tropicana Stadium, where the Open was taking place, held very little interest to Ron, he decided to revisit the topic of Ginny and Harry's evening outing. "I can't understand why you two are going out_ tonight_," he groused. "We're leaving tomorrow on one of the most dangerous assignments the Tunnel's had to offer in a long time, and you two are going out to rub elbows with the high-society snobs and the like. It doesn't make any sense."

"Emma D. Barnaby's parties are things that can't be missed." Harry tightened the knot on his tie and turned to Ginny for a nod of approval. He'd received the invitation by owl several weeks before, but in the hustle and bustle of the last few weeks, it had completely slipped his mind. They had been rather late to R. S. V. P., but Emma hadn't seemed to mind. "I'm doing this as a favor to the twins, too. I'm a partner in the shop, you know. And it looks good for business to have me there."

"And I get to play the trophy girlfriend." Ginny smirked.

Ron opened his mouth to continue disparaging, but a resounding _whump_ sounded around the kitchen. He shut his mouth and glared at his wife, who was innocently twirling her wand across the table from him. The oven timer made every single one of them jump, and Ginny let out a nervous chuckle.

"Here," she said, waving her wand at the linguini. "Give it a few minutes to cool. There's Butterbeer, pumpkin juice, and milk in the icebox, and help yourself to anything you like from the cupboards." Collecting up a shawl of the same slinky black material as her dress, and a streamlined purse, she shooed Harry from the kitchen. He returned a minute later, feet shod and a dinner jacket over his arm. "Don't wait up."

They headed downstairs to the main floor of the apartment building, where they'd agreed to meet Fred, George, and Angelina. The twins had decided on Muggle attire for the evening, and had found appropriately bright powder-blue Muggle suits that looked a few decades old. Angelina wore a striking red dress that came to an abrupt halt just above her knees. A glance down told Harry that she had painted her toes to match.

"I so wish I could wear that colour," Ginny said mournfully, rubbing a hand on the shoulder of Angelina's matching red shawl.

"And I wish I still had a figure like yours." Angelina's grin was quick. "I suppose we're even."

George, meanwhile, was entertaining himself by poking through the mail slots in the wall near the door, studying all of the bills that Harry's neighbours were studiously avoiding. When he got to Harry's slot, though, his eyebrows shot up. "Looks like you've got something," he told Harry, holding out a simple white envelope. "You know any Muggles?"

"A few." Harry took the envelope, but he didn't recognize the spiky handwriting that scrawled his name and address. It figured that there was no return address. Curious, he broke the taped seal with his thumb.

"No!"

Just as Harry peeled back the opening flap, Ginny caught a look at the handwriting and elbowed him to the side—just in time. A Bludger plowed for the open seal and barreled into the space where Harry's head had been instants before. He shouted a curse as it hit the wall behind him, crunching wood and sawdust all over the assembled. Immediately, it careened away and straight for the potted houseplant Harry's landlord kept in the corner for ambience.

But George and Fred hadn't been Hogwarts' top Beaters for naught; before the Bludger could take out an entire wall, Fred's quick hands snatched it from the air, and he and George used their weight to wrestle it down to the ground. Angelina yanked out her wand and pointed it haphazardly. "_Stillus_!"

The Bludger dropped with a thud.

Footsteps pounded on the stairs. Muttering an oath, Harry whipped out his own wand and waved it at the wall. "_Reparo!_"

Mr. Prost, Harry's neighbor on the second floor, thundered into view just after the spell had taken effect. The portly gentleman wore what was surely his wife's bathrobe, and fuzzy blue slippers to match. He hadn't tied the robe tightly enough and Harry, in that instance, found himself much better acquainted with Mr. Prost than he ever wanted to be. He hastily averted his gaze and coughed. He took the chance to glance over at Ginny, and nearly scowled at what he saw there. She was bone-white, every ounce of color having evaporated. She was too far away for him to reach out a hand and take hers, so he was grateful when Angelina wrapped a supportive arm around her shoulders.

Prost, meanwhile, was nearly bright red. "What's all the racket!" His beady eyes, not unlike Harry's uncle Vernon's, swept over the group suspiciously, as though they had been holding a wild party in the foyer of the apartment building.

"I fell," Fred supplied quickly as George hurried to hide the Bludger behind his back.

He wasn't quick enough. "What's that?" Prost demanded, moving forward (and unconsciously letting the robe slip a little more). "A cannonball? What have you got a cannonball for? This isn't one of those foolish pranks, is it?" His eyes narrowed back on Harry.

"The cannonball belonged to my grandfather," Angelina said, thinking quickly for the group. She hadn't been dating a Weasley twin for this long without a few tricks up her sleeve. "We're taking it to a charity auction tonight." She gestured at the formalwear and Prost's expression seemed to let up the slightest bit. It was enough for Harry; speaking quickly and apologizing for his friend's "clumsiness," Harry hurried his neighbour up the stairs and back to his apartment.

When he came back downstairs, it was to find George rubbing Ginny's shoulders while both Angelina and Fred looked stricken. Fred held out a single white piece of paper. "It was in the envelope—fell when we were dealing with the Bludger." His voice shook, betraying a cold fury.

Harry didn't have to read it to know who had sent it, and the Bludger. Ice burrowing in his throat, he took the paper.

"I'll be there," was all it said, in the same handwriting from the envelope.

Dermot had just laid out the challenge. The next move was theirs.

* * *

There was a tension in the air like a damp, sticky heat as most of the group assembled at the international portkey headquarters early the next afternoon, baggage in hand and grim looks in place. Harry, who'd travelled over by car with Ginny, Ron, and Hermione, held his bags and one of Ginny's. He felt a bit hung-over, with greasy nausea battling the contents of his stomach, and a pounding headache threatening to split his skull in half, though he'd only had one drink at the ball the night before. Glancing around him, it didn't look like the others were faring much better. Ginny, he knew, hadn't had very much sleep; she had been trembling when he fell into an uneasy sleep beside her, and she wasn't in the bed when he awoke. She stood between him and Fred now, clutching a carpet bag. Even her disguise as Amy Mason couldn't hide the dark circles under her eyes.

International portkeys were nothing like regular portkeys, which was why he tolerated them at all. When travelling by international portkey, one didn't haven't to fly across the Atlantic by one's finger attached to a boot. No, the creators of these portkeys had designed them with luxury and convenience in mind. They were old train cabooses, converted to hold several rows of padded benches, and painted in the same maroon-and-blue patterns. The headquarters housed a yard full of such cabooses; each one had a sign in front of it, declaring its flight number, destination, and departure time. Harry and the others were standing inside the waiting room, patiently waiting for Caboose 982 to arrive so that they could board and take off for Orlando, Florida.

Smiling solely for Ginny's sake, Fred leaned over and muttered something to his youngest sibling. She gave a short grin in reply, but said nothing.

Harry figured that Ginny had to be uncomfortable, even though she hadn't said anything. Hermione had insisted upon putting a battery of protective spells on her before they left the Hutch that morning, but that wasn't all. Underneath the flowing paisley top, they had fitted a snug charms vest, which would block a great deal of caustic spells. Though Ginny's drab-green slacks were just as loose, she had insisted on not wearing the charm trousers. "I won't be able to walk properly," she pointed out. "And we can't let the other members of the Typhoon know something is up. They'll bungle things up."

Nearby, Hermione had tamed her frizzy locks into a sleek bun, and had dyed them the same colour as Ginny's altered hair for good measure. Her passport and identifications read "Jill Mason." The others had agreed that it would be easiest to pass off a large group of spectators if they weren't all related to Harry or Ron in some way. Fred and George would be attending the Open as business partners looking for a new market. Neville and Luna were going incognito. They would be catching a later portkey with the Darrows.

Finally, the number 982 flashed across the little screen at the front of the waiting room. "That's us," Harry said needlessly, and gathered his and Ginny's luggage. They headed out the swinging saloon-style doors to the grey English day and presented their tickets to a moustached clerk who barely gave their passports a cursory glance. Caboose 982 was rather small compared to the others in the portkey yard, but Harry didn't mind. He chose a seat near the back and let Ginny in first.

"Maybe you should catch a nap on the way there?" he suggested, nudging her shoulder when she blinked heavily. "I'll even let you use my shoulder as a pillow."

"Nice of you," Ginny muttered around a yawn. Despite her sarcasm, she had head resting on his shoulder before the portkey even took off, and was dead asleep within seconds. Ron and Hermione sat in front of them, with a twin in a seat either behind them or beside them. Though they'd made unsaid plans to discuss what would happen at the Open on the way, everybody fell silent.

The portkey took off with a lurch that barely moved its occupants. It was only half-full; the only other occupants sat off to the front and the other side, away from Harry and his friends. Still, he eyed them, wondering if any of them could be Dermot in disguise. They looked like wealthy, well-to-do wizards who had no sense for Muggle fashion and an apparent fondness for the colour pink, but he wouldn't put anything past Dermot. So he kept his fingers loosely wrapped around his wand.

It wasn't long before Fred, George, and Ron started a card game. They would be on the caboose for about two hours, Hermione had estimated, since transatlantic travel was always bound to take some time. Outside, the windows displayed a dizzying blur of colours that shifted so rapidly that Harry couldn't watch them without feeling the nausea increase. Instead, he pulled the window blind down and settled back to relax as much as he could with the sickening feeling of dread in his stomach.

They weren't going into this blind and unarmed, he had to remind himself. From they instant they landed in Orlando, there would be at least two or three people surrounding Ginny, eyes peeled for any signs of Dermot. They had a strict identification system and some nifty little toys to aid their cause. Harry pulled the one that Hermione had delivered to out of his pocket and studied it. It looked like a worn copy of the brochure for Tropicana Stadium, but he knew that Hermione and the twins had put in dog's hours to finish this particular project.

"Good news." Hermione leaned over the seat in between them, resting her elbows on the back of her seat. "I modified it some more after you went to bed last night."

"You know, pregnant women need sleep, too," Harry pointed out.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "I know." Thankfully, she was too excited about her new invention, for that was the only rebuke he received. The others were already walking on a thin wire around Hermione, who was prone to emotional fits, but he'd rather brave her displeasure and tell her if she was doing something outright unhealthy. "We managed to get Dermot's magical signature on the map."

Harry's eyebrows shot sky-high. He knew that Hermione, Fred, and George had taken a simple multicoloured map on the brochure and had somehow tied all of their magical signatures into it, meaning that it would show the viewer (with the proper password, of course) exactly where everybody in the group was at the stadium, not unlike the Marauder's Map. The Marauder's Map, however, showed everybody in Hogwarts; the stadium map only showed those members in their group.

"How'd you manage that?" he asked, appraising the map again as though hoping for Dermot's name to show up on the page.

"The Bludger he oh-so-kindly sent as little gift for you last night. It didn't have a very large magical signature on it, but it was enough for me to tie to your map—and Ginny's, but that's it—to let you know which half of the stadium he's in. Unfortunately, it can't get any more specific than that." Hermione's frown pulled slightly to one side, and a line appeared between her eyes. "Actually, the modifications will probably end up being more of a curse than a blessing."

Harry shrugged. "At this stage, I'll take anything I can get."

"Also, we added a few of your team-mates on here," Hermione continued, taking the brochure and prodding it with her wand. "Namely, Frank Gideon and the Harrows sisters. Fred picked up their signatures when they took the early portkey out."

"Sneaky."

"Necessary," Hermione corrected. "Those are only recorded on yours and Ginny's maps, though. Since they're all considered collateral."

Something niggled at the back of Harry's mind. "So if you had to put in every magical signature by hand," he began, taking the brochure back and turning it over to the glossy front, "why was everybody listed on the Marauder's Map? The thing was sitting in Filch's desk drawer for years, and it's not like my father and his friends could have possibly sat around predicting every person that would ever come to Hogwarts."

"The Marauder's Map," and Hermione took on her lecturing tone, the one that Harry had heard a great deal of over the years, "is tied in magically to Hogwarts. Now, you may not be aware of it, but Hogwarts itself has its own identification system. Unfortunately, the castle won't ward out evil, since I figure there's probably a little bit of it in all of us. You have to know where to find it, but the identification log is there. If you know where to look, you can find out exactly who's in the castle at any given time. I don't think Professor Dumbledore knew about it."

Harry got the feeling that no matter how long he lived, there would always be something about Hogwarts that was determined to surprise him. "So the map ties into that log?" he asked, just to make sure.

"Yes. Frankly, I'm amazed that your father and his friends thought to utilise it. It's a genius move, really. I wish they'd left documentation to its whereabouts. I'd love to get a look at it someday.

"We could have done something similar, using the stadium's identification system—tickets and whatnot—but none of us has the magical strength or desire to take on such a large project. Plus, we'd need a bigger map to keep all of those names legible, and really, who wants to sift through thousands of names like that?"

By the time that they arrived in Florida, Hermione was napping against the window and, knowing more than he ever wanted to about magical identification systems, Harry had joined in on the card game. They were playing with Ron's fedora as the pot, keeping their bets down to Knuts and a few Sickles for posterity's sake. Ginny was still curled up against his side, and he hadn't been able to feel his right arm for a good twenty minutes, giving him only one hand with which to play cards. He didn't mind.

The portkey landed with an awful lurch and a thud, throwing its contents forward. Harry reacted instinctively and threw an arm up to keep Ginny from sliding to the floor. Ron's fedora hit the ground and scattered coins everywhere, and Hermione awoke with a jolt. Ginny blinked heavily for several seconds as she gathered her wits, jarred and confused. She looked around slowly, tilting her head. "We're there already? I didn't think we'd left yet."

"You fell asleep before we left." Harry collected their luggage from the rack above their heads and gestured for her to precede him out the door. Outside, sunlight slanted in through the few windows that hadn't been covered by blinds. It was bright enough to disperse all sense of mood from the previously-gloomy cabin. "It was about two hours, give or take. Did you have a good nap?"

"My leg's asleep."

They made their way out into the blinding Florida sunshine, grateful when Hermione thought to produce sets of wraparound sunglasses. The receiving yard, a uniformed row of rectangular "launch pads" for the caboose to land, was a long and bright affair. It looked as though Orlando was a larger station than the one in Surrey; the receiving headquarters, through which they'd be processed, was nearly half a kilometre away. A cloying sense of humidity only made the journey more miserable.

Hermione, meanwhile, was entertaining herself by listing off statistics about Orlando. "It's about ten in the morning," she told them as they neared the arrivals gate. "We're five hours behind here, and we left at—"

She broke off at the sight of the woman waiting to greet them at the gate. Immediately, Ginny and Harry started forward; Tracy Harrows was standing just on the other side of the gate, dressed as a Muggle and with her hands in her pockets. She waved to them as the clerk checked their passports and allowed them inside. "Took you long enough!"

"What's the matter? Has something happened?" Ginny asked. "Are the others okay?"

Tracy just laughed and shook her head. "You two are the biggest worrywarts." She shifted slightly and for the first time, Harry noticed that she wasn't alone. A lanky, quiet stranger was standing to her side, studying them with blue-green eyes from under a thick thatch of brown hair. "Chris, this is them."

Harry juggled the one handheld suitcase he had to his left hand and extended his right to the man. "Hello. I don't believe we've met. Harry Potter. And my girlfriend, Amy Mason."

The stranger gave a perfectly charming grin as he shook first Harry's hand, then Ginny's. Like Tracy, he was dressed as a Muggle, but the smooth lines of his clothing spoke of a rich background. There were laugh lines in between his eyes, and a sprinkling of premature grey in his hair. "Chris Gingham."

Ginny tipped her sunglasses down. "The Quidditch Prince?"

Now the grin turned sheepish. "One and the same, unfortunately. Although I have to admit, I'm not too fond of the title right now. But that's better discussed somewhere else. Is there a chance we could grab a cup of coffee? I'm afraid we need to talk."

Harry felt a spider of suspicion crawl lightly across his skin and eyed Chris Gingham again. Was this how Dermot was going to make his move? Lure them into false trust with an affable stranger and attack that way?

"About what?" he asked, keeping his voice polite.

"Some things have recently come into play." Chris's voice was smooth, but it was obvious to even a stranger that he didn't wish to discuss it in public.

Ginny and Harry's exchanged look held a quick and furious debate. Finally, Ginny gave her most gracious smile, one that almost hid the rumpled lines in her face from where her cheek had been resting against Harry's shoulder, and said, "Certainly. Is there any good coffee around here? I'll certainly need it to get used to the time difference."

Harry could hear rustling behind them that meant the others were debating how best to tail Ginny to the coffee shop, since it didn't seem like Chris Gingham wanted anybody but them to come along for coffee. Finally, George separated from the group and headed towards the bathroom. "We'll meet you at the hotel?" Ron asked Harry, clapping him on the shoulder. His eyebrows stayed raised for just a fraction long enough to let Harry know that George was coming with them.

Tracy led them to a coffee shop right outside the station, a Muggle place that seemed to have a golden-brown and green motif going for it. A few seconds after they entered and headed to the counter to place their orders, a freckled blond in a red baseball cap and a T-shirt for some sports team wandered inside. Harry nodded at George, impressed that he'd managed to change so quickly, and nearly grinned when the Weasley took up a place at the counter with a newspaper and a ready smile for the girl working behind the counter.

"I'm sorry if I sound rude, but how exactly do you know Tracy?" Ginny asked as she slid into a booth near the back of the restaurant.

Tracy waved a hand at that. "Chris is my boyfriend of…what is it now? Two years?"

"Something like that." Chris shook his head, more amused than anything else. "Just don't ask Stacy what she thinks of me."

So that explained why even Melinda turned down the possibility of getting Tracy with Bear sometime, Harry thought with a spurt of amusement. Until the Typhoon had happened, he had never been involved with any inter-office romances and politics, so it amused him to realise that he was right in the thick of it now.

"At any rate, down to business." Chris changed demeanours so quickly that Harry nearly blinked at him. "Did either of you have a chance to read the Prophet this morning? I can imagine things might have been hectic for you."

It was an understatement if there ever was one. That morning, the Hutch had been a hive of activity, most of it centring around George, Fred, and Hermione as they worked to get the faint traces of Dermot's magical signature in the brochure-maps (Harry hadn't known this, for he and Ron had been too busy double-checking all of their luggage and making sure it was tamper-proof). Neville usually read the paper for the business report, and Hermione read it religiously, cover-to-cover, but they had forgone life's little pleasures in the face of the upcoming mission. So both Harry and Ginny shook their heads now.

Chris removed a wallet from his back pocket and pulled out a folded square. Unfolded, it revealed the front page of the _Daily Prophet_, with a very stark black and white photograph of an elderly wizard being led away in stun-cuffs. Harry blinked; that was Sam Werner's unforgettable scowl. Underneath that, the headline screamed, "Quidditch Scam Revealed!" in block letters.

"So I take it you don't know anything about this?" Chris asked dryly, passing the newspaper over so that Harry and Ginny could get a better look.

Underneath the headline was written, in italicised print, "Werner, Davenport, Malfoy, and Quidditch King Teddy Gingham All Caught Red-handed in World's Biggest Quidditch Scam!"

"That rag prints more and more like a tabloid every day," Harry said with an amusement he didn't feel. His stomach had dropped out and had landed somewhere in the vicinity of his knees. Somebody had busted the scandal that he had Ginny had been researching for months wide open. Not sure he wanted to read exactly what was in the article, he looked over at Chris. His tongue felt as though somebody had replaced it with cotton. "What exactly's going on?"

"There's no easy way to put it, so I'll just tell you straight: the Typhoon is a criminal organisation."

"You don't say." It was like a punch to the stomach to see all that he had worked over the past few months in black and white print, so the sarcasm slipped out before Harry could stop it. Ginny elbowed him, mortified, but Chris only smiled.

"So, all of the team had suspicions," he said, shaking his head. "You really are a remarkable lot."

That was news to Harry, who exchanged a sidelong look with Ginny. The whole team had suspected that something was amiss? Not a single thing had slipped; granted, there'd been a few disgruntled players at the beginning, since they all saw playing on the Typhoon as a demotion, but that had ended after a few weeks of Ginny's clever advertising. From then, there hadn't even been a ripple of resentment.

"It was pretty obvious that something was up," Ginny pointed out.

"Yes, I suppose it was." Chris took the newspaper article back, took care folding it. "Anyway, there's a lot they don't say in the article, but the gist of it is that in 1978, my father and Ulysses Davenport, old school chums that they were, threw the Quidditch World Cup by bribing pretty much every single member on the Pitch, and alerting many of You-Know-Who's supporters about it. Of course, the money went straight to Sam Werner, the manager of the English team, and, I imagine, ended up in the hands of You-Know-Who."

Harry nearly swallowed his coffee down the wrong pipe, and choked out a cough. Beside him, Ginny whitened. "It's that simple?" It was said aloud, but it was rhetorical, and exactly what they were both feeling. The mystery that they had been working on for months had such a simple answer? It was like going out and buying lion-hunting gear, only to find a housecat!

"Of course, everybody involved was memory-charmed afterward—You-Know-Who's orders—so even if Davenport, Werner, and my father were accused of it, they could honestly say there were no witnesses." Chris had a natural storyteller's voice, smooth and with the right inflection to keep Ginny and Harry's interest. "It didn't even come up until Draco Malfoy was going through his manor looking for something to sell, no doubt to pay off his gambling debts. His father kept the books for You-Know-Who, apparently, because Malfoy found ledgers from 1978. He may be annoying gnat of a man, but he's not stupid. You can probably see where he's going from here."

"He blackmailed Ulysses Davenport, Teddy Gingham, and Sam Werner," Ginny finished grimly.

"I notice that neither of you look very surprised."

Since Ginny's cover-story had her attending some magical school in America, Harry nodded for the pair of them. "I went to school with Malfoy."

"Ah. At any rate, Malfoy's demands must have got to be too much, so my father gave him an out to make even _more _money."

"The Typhoon."

Chris touched the tip of his nose with his forefinger. "Malfoy, of course, bought it—with the condition that you be on the team, Potter."

"Priceless," Harry muttered, feeling the age-old hatred for Draco Malfoy arise yet again. He swallowed over acidic bitterness and scowled. Even though he'd suspected as much, it still burned to be played like a fool.

"So now we come to the dilemma," Chris finished. "Three of the five owners of the Typhoon are currently incarcerated in a wizard jail cell of some type, awaiting a sentence that I'm sure includes several counts of manslaughter and illegal dealings. They haven't picked up Malfoy yet, but it's only a matter of time before they catch up to him—with five counts of obstruction of justice and extortion."

"Who haven't they caught yet?" Ginny asked, adding the numbers up in her head.

"Dave Davenport had a smaller share in the team, but he's willingly given it up. Since the government seized the other four shares, the team has no official owner." Now Chris gave the charming grin again, which was no balm to the fact that Harry's stomach was once again sinking. "And you can't play in the Open without an owner."

"Well, that presents a problem." Harry caught the brief flash of panic in Ginny's eyes. Without an owner, the team would have to return to England—and they would be forced to give up their best shot at catching Dermot. Without this chance, it was possible that Dermot would continue to terrorise them for years, unless they went into hiding. Harry felt something settle heavily in his middle and looked over at Chris, gravely. "How much is the team?"

"It's not for sale." Chris took a long drink of his coffee, which had probably gone cold during their conversation.

"I thought you said the government seized it—"

"They did. I pulled a few strings, called in a few endorsements, and purchased it about six hours ago. I just finished putting a down-payment on it." He named a sum that made Ginny's jaw fall and Harry whistle appreciatively. "However, I'm willing to take you on as a sponsor, if you like. I can afford the team, since I'm filthy rich from my mother's side of the family, but it's nice when all of the team members own shares of their team."

"Before we get down to negotiating," Harry said, jiggling his own coffee cup and looking the other man straight in the eye, "I have to know—who gave Malfoy up?"

A frown, an occurrence that was surely rare for as cheerful a fellow as Chris Gingham, came across the other man's face and echoed itself in Tracy's expression. "Nobody knows," Tracy answered. "The article said that it was just left on some Auror's desk, in a note form—"

"Nymphadora Tonks," Chris supplied, frowning. "If you ask me, one of Malfoy's enemies probably set him up."

The coincidences were growing in number and suspicion, but Harry couldn't very well voice any of that in front of Tracy and Chris. So he waited patiently for a minute, hoping that Chris might supply more information. Seeing that this wasn't going to happen, he shifted a bit. "I reckon we'd better get down to negotiating the price of my share, then?"

"Not quite yet." Chris faced Ginny, gave her his best wheedling grin. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to start on the new promotions as soon as this week, would you?"

"Only if I could make all of the preparations from here," Ginny replied, gripping Harry's forearm under the table so hard that he forced himself not to wince. "I just have one more question about that note that Tonks found. Was there any signature at all?"

Chris and Tracy both looked puzzled until Chris pulled out his wallet and the article once more. "The Aurors have their best researchers on it," Chris assured them even as he unfolded the paper yet again. He scanned it quickly and then passed it across the table. "But so far nobody matches the profile belonging to the initials 'W' and 'H.'"

It wasn't until Ginny gasped that Harry's stomach hit the floor and he realised just who "W.H." was.


	13. Facets in the Glass

A/N: Ah, the bits about Rosenheim and Emma D. Barnaby's "ball." Yes. They should be extremely fun to reveal, but not yet. Stick around, we have this chapter and maybe one or two more. Hope you've been keeping up on your reading. Don't really have time to slow down and re-explain it all.

On another note, in regards to the new book coming out, this fic is slightly AU until I go back in the revised edition (hopefully to be put up at Sugarquill—updates on that to come in later chapters) and tweak a few things about chapters one and three. This is only a bit different than canon as it stands, but I'm not going to confuse everybody by going back and changing everything now. We're in for the long haul, folks.

Disclaimer: You know the drill—it's not mine, it's not being used for anything commercial, and JK Rowling rocks my socks.

Chapter Thirteen: Facets in the Glass

Very much like the Hutch had served as a makeshift centre of operations in England, Ginny and Harry found the hotel suite they were sharing with George acting as a hub of sorts. Ron and Hermione had already set up surveillance equipment on the counters of the kitchenette, there were open files covering the ottoman/coffee table, and the entertainment centre was conveniently shrunk and set to the side so that Hermione could post a blown-up copy of the brochure/tracking map on the wall. Right now, it was empty of all of their magical signature colours—they were all crowded in the suite, or at least in the hotel, several blocks away from the stadium. Fred and George were pawing through the mini-bar, Ron was fiddling with the knobs on one of the surveillance…thingamajigs they'd brought along, Hermione and Luna were at the small table with separate publications open in front of them, Harry was seated on the loveseat, and Ginny was pacing with a pale, manic look on her face.

Neville, who claimed that tense atmospheres did him little good when he had things to accomplish, had taken off on his own personal mission after accompanying Luna to the hotel. He was in the closeted herbal market, a place where Apothecary owners around the world shopped when they were looking for rare plants, a short Apparation away from Orlando. For the moment, Ginny envied him. She was tired of the tension, and more importantly, she was sick of being the source of it.

"The American papers don't have very much about it," Hermione said with a frown as she dropped the newspaper she'd been perusing for the past few minutes. "I'm sorry, Ginny, I don't know what to tell you. There's no way to be sure—"

"The Prophet said that the note was signed by a W.H. Who else could it be?" She felt like tearing her hair from her head; the nauseating pressure that had been mounting just behind her sternum for the past two weeks was roiling to a peak that no antacid potion could possibly hope to fight. She felt like she was going to explode into a thousand tiny little pieces and get bits of Ginny everywhere for the others to clean up.

Hermione opened her mouth, thought about it, closed it again. "I'm not discounting your theory," she began slowly, perhaps sensing that Ginny was close to detonating. She scowled when both Harry and Ron raised their eyebrows at her. "I'm not, honestly. But you have to look at motive. Specifically, he _has _none for doing this."

Harry shifted positions on the couch. "He has all the motive he needs. He wants to confuse her and to throw her off. That's all he's after at this point."

"W. H., though?" Hermione hit the folded paper with the back of her hand and rubbed her other hand through her tamed red locks. "Why would he use _those _initials?"

"Witch Hunter," Ginny, Ron, and Harry said on the same breath.

Hermione rolled her eyes at the three of them. "Yes, I know that. What I meant is—" She stopped mid-sentence and picked up the paper, stared hard at it for a minute. Because Ginny had known her for years, she knew that her strained look was merely hiding a thought process that would put many of the world's smartest people to shame. Ron and Harry, obviously recognising the same thing, also waited for her to finish thinking. "Well, obviously you're right." Hermione shook her head. "I hadn't seen it until just now, but only because I couldn't out figure out why. I just did."

"Well?" Harry asked it for all three of them. Ginny, who couldn't get rid of the edgy feeling that an eruption was impending, began to pace again, her own brain racing across the problem. Instead of the solution she desired, though, she found just a jumbled, hyperactive bundle of thoughts that seemed to speed dizzily with no sense of connection.

"It's not that he just wants her confused and thrown off, as you put it." Hermione toyed with her quill, glanced across to Luna (who was ignoring them all to read the newest copy of her magazine). She looked straight at Ginny and the other woman finally felt compelled to stop pacing, held in that gaze. "Well, not just that, at any rate. He wants you busy."

The other three stared at her for a long time, each of them trying to make sense of such a bizarre statement. Ron realised it first. "Of course!" He even slapped his forehead, groaning as he shook his head. "Dermot was your partner—at the American Tunnel. Right?" Warily, Ginny nodded. "So he knows most of your habits and mannerisms."

"The ones that didn't sprout directly from his actions, at least," Hermione amended, rising from the table.

Ron waved impatiently as though to say, "yes, yes, whatever." Looking back over at Ginny, he said, "I reckon Dermot could easily take a sniper shot at you and kill you, given his history with Muggles and guns, but he wants it to be personal. That's the thing he's been with all of his Witch Hunter victims, right?"

"Right—he got to know each of them on a personal and romantic level before he—" Ginny broke off with a groan similar to Ron's. "I can't believe he'd do this." For the first time since she'd landed in Florida, anger spurted over the confusion, soothing her nerves in its own way.

"I still don't get how keeping her busy has anything to do with it," Harry stated, obviously still confused.

Ginny shot a look at her brother and his wife, ordering them to let her explain. Looking over at Harry, she said, "He wants me off by myself, and he knows that by now the only way I'll try to duck out of the way of my bodyguards is if I'm extremely busy. I get—I get cranky when I'm that busy. And when I'm cranky, I don't think rationally. I don't think anybody does."

"And the best way to do that is to pile extra work on you in the form of the Typhoon switching hands," Harry finished, nodding his head. His glance at Ron was only slightly sardonic. "Does anybody else feel like we're in the middle of a big, absurd chess match where we don't hold all of the right pieces?"

"No, I feel much taller now, thank you," Ron bit off sarcastically.

While Harry gave a weak chuckle and Hermione rolled her eyes, Ginny stared at her older brother, confused. What on earth…?

"So what do we do now?" Ron continued, less sarcastic now.

"Forewarned is forearmed, right?" Hermione crossed to the mini-bar (Fred and George had abandoned it at some point, though Ginny couldn't remember when) and pulled a bottled water from the fridge. "We know what he's up to, so Ginny is less prone to duck her security now that she knows. I bet he was trusting that none of us would read the _Prophet_ this morning, or make the connection. He probably bet that Chris Gingham would buy the team, since according to you, Ron, Chris has been doing that for awhile now, and trusted that you wouldn't make the connection that Malfoy and the others—your case, essentially—had been arrested."

Oh! Ginny inwardly shook her head as she finally understood Ron's cryptic comment, recalling that everybody had made a fuss when Ron, Hermione, and Harry had faced McGonagall's giant chess set in their first year.

"He's getting sloppy, if that's the case." Harry stood up, started pacing around the spacious suite. "All of us on the team spread rumours like none other. It was bound to get out."

"But not necessarily the fact that the note was signed W.H.," Ginny argued, feeling some semblance of coherence slip into her mind now that she could put the pieces together into a larger puzzle again. She felt as though she'd regained some of her ground in sanity. She took a deep breath, thought about the overall picture. "And that was the only clue that might have warned us. Otherwise, we'd just be suspicious, and even busier…because we'd be trying to get through to Tonks and figure out who solved the mystery for us. So he took a risk, and he lost. Undoubtedly, he has some sort of contingency plan if that happens, but as far as you and I know, he doesn't know we know yet."

She stared at the others. "He _doesn't know _we know yet."

Ron stroked his chin, thinking. "Assuming that, we find a way to turn this back around on him."

But Hermione shook her head and tapped her finger against her teeth, brow furrowed in deep thought. "No," she said, bemused, before Harry or Ginny could jump in. "Let's do something worse. Let's taunt him with it." The smile she gave them now was feral.

"And I think I know exactly how."

* * *

The American Quidditch Open, generally one of the largest events of the year for hardcore Quidditch fans around the globe, attracted the largest crowd Harry had seen outside of the World Cup. He could hear it even now, thundering overhead as he made his way through the restricted door marked "PLAYERS ONLY" and down a long, dimly-lit corridor. On one level, he found it funny that all of the back-ways and underbellies of every single Quidditch stadium looked essentially the same: a grey backdrop for low lighting and dark tunnels. On another level, little else amused him right now. He'd left Ginny in the company of Fred, Ron, and Neville, and the thought that he wasn't around to protect her left a greasy spot in his stomach that wouldn't go away. They were up in one of the top-boxes, in plain sight and in the least danger for a little while, but that didn't stop the worry from gnawing unpleasantly. He headed into the locker room that the Typhoon had been assigned—

—And ducked just in time to avoid a balled-up pair of pants to the face.

"Hey! Don't kill the Seeker!" he shouted, laughing as soon as his instincts would let him. He picked up the pants, a white set of briefs, and dangled them from one finger. "And just whose are these?"

Bear snatched them from him, giving him his answer without saying a word. Clutching a towel around his waist, he stalked off.

Harry raised an eyebrow at Stacy, who was standing just inside the locker room, a too-innocent look on her face. He might have blushed at her state of attire, but he was unfortunately used to seeing Tracy and Stacy Harrows in various states of undress. Between them two of them, the twins had maybe a shred of modesty—on good days. The sight of Stacy in her Quidditch trousers, barefoot with only a sports-bra covering her torso (which, he noticed, was scarred a good deal—not that he was surprised. Tracy and Stacy hadn't made it to the top of the Quidditch leagues by playing nice, after all), was distressingly common.

She flipped her hair over her shoulder and regarded him with an amused look. "What?"

"Nothing. Just surprised you and Bear made it past the need for trousers."

There was a noise akin to a muffled explosion on the other side of a set of lockers, so Harry figured at least Tad, if not both Beaters, had heard his droll comment. Stacy rolled her eyes, still grinning, and headed off to the female half of the locker room, leaving Harry free to wander and claim his own locker. "What's been going on in here?" he asked of both Tad and Frank once he reached them.

"Sexual tension, mate. Forget the knife. It's so thick you could cut it with a spoon. A dull one." Tad, a hulking figure of a man, was nearly whistling as he pulled on his uniform. Harry just laughed in reply and pried open his own locker.

Frank cracked his knuckles and whirled his torso about to pop the bones in his spine. "Which reminds me—I reckon it's time Harry at least repaid Bear for that bet we made about him and Pretty Miss Mason awhile back."

"Bear? That's all I'm repaying?" Harry looked dubious. "I believe I owe _all_ of you for that one. I seem to recall every single one of you insisting—"

"Yes, but see, you ended up with Pretty Miss Mason, so really, I think universal balance means you can only repay _one _person. And that's Bear. He just won the unlucky lottery." Tad grinned his most charming smile just as the Keeper in question wandered in, trousers secured in place by a belt. "Well, go on, Harry. Pay him back."

Bear, more interested in combing his shaggy hair into something resembling a done coif, barely spared them a glance from his locker mirror. "Pay me back? What?"

"Five minutes until our practice session on the Pitch, guys!" Melinda's voice called across the locker room. "Whatever you're doing over there, hurry it up!"

Harry rolled his eyes at the wall and hurried to strip out of the leather jacket (impractical clothing for the muggy heat of Florida in the middle of the summer, but it was the only thing he'd packed that hid his arm-holster, so he'd suffered through it. He peeled off the T-shirt underneath and wormed his way out of his jeans.

"Figure I owe somebody something for that wonderful dare you and the others put on me back when we were playing the Demented," Harry told Bear as he pulled on his Quidditch trousers, latching them with a set of plastic fasteners that wouldn't hurt as much as a belt if a Bludger hit him. "So here it is—we win this thing, you have to kiss Stacy—in front of the entire stadium. On our victory lap."

"Potter, this isn't second year at Hogwarts," Bear grumbled, slapping aftershave onto his face. "I'd appreciate a _little _maturity here."

Tad laid a none-too-gentle hand on the irate Keeper's shoulder. "Not the way it works, Bear. Besides, it's only fair."

Bear turned a stink-eye on both Tad and Frank. "Fair? How come he's only issuing this challenge to me, then? Why not you two?"

"Technically, this challenge is issued to both you _and_ Stacy," Harry pointed out mildly, strapping his robes shut with one hand and reaching for his boots with the other. "Besides, both Tad and Frank are married already, Tracy has a long-term boyfriend, and I don't think Melinda would give us enough of a struggle to make it fun. I don't think it's quite the same thing."

Bear stared all of them. "I hate you all," he said cheerfully, and stalked away, broom slung over his shoulder and boots only half-fastened.

"It's nice to be loved," Tad remarked. He and Frank followed their sulky team-mate, juggling their brooms while they pulled on the sturdy gloves that enabled them to keep a sturdy grip on their bats. Harry shook his head after them and finished closing the snaps on his uniform. He pushed a hand through his hair, uselessly, and straightened his glasses. It was a pre-game routine that hadn't changed whether he was eleven or twenty-three.

He swung around when Stacy, whistling, headed for the door. "Hey, Stace? Could I have a word?"

"Sure. But on the way to the Pitch. Bear or Melinda will have our hides if we're late." It made for an enclosed space walking side-by-side in the small corridor, but they managed. "What's up, Potter?"

Since Harry had always found that the best way to deal with these things was to admit the truth right out, he scratched the back of his neck. "It's Amy," he confessed.

Immediately, Stacy looked concerned. "What about her? Is she okay?"

"Well, right now, she is." He chewed on the tip of his tongue, trying to figure out how he would word this. "Sort of. The thing is, she's had a lot of side-projects going on for months. And she's…well, she's exhausted. So I was looking forward to this Florida trip. Spent a pretty Knut, if you know what I mean. I wanted to pamper her, make sure she gets enough rest. And then all of this…this rubbish about the Davenports and Teddy Gingham, and with Chris buying the team…well, he wants her to start all of this promotional activity while still over here."

"Ah. And you don't want that to happen," Stacy summed up, nodding her head as they made the turn into the corridor that would take them straight through the Player's Doors to the Pitch.

"I want her to take a break and have a bit of a vacation. She can do the promotional rubbish just as well from bloody old England." Harry let a touch of his grouchiness towards Dermot creep into his voice, giving his plea a genuine feel.

Stacy paused for the briefest of minutes to pull on her gloves—her hands were so small that they looked like a doll's. "So," she surmised, focused on the wrist-fastenings, "you want me to absently drop a word to my dear and loving sister, who will be so concerned about Amy—because we both like her, you know—that she will, of course, order her boyfriend to back off a bit?"

"Precisely."

"I've got your number, Potter. Sure, I'll drop a word, after the game. Now, c'mon." That said, they exited the stage door and broke out into a very narrow corridor, this time only claustrophobic because fans crowded in on either side. Laughing nervously, they took off for the Pitch, arms up to fight off any overzealous advances.

* * *

Despite the fact that their mascots were turtles and their robes were sea-green to match, the Honolulu Honu quickly proved to be exceedingly fast. Unfortunately enough for them, that was about where their skill ended. Bear had been running various drills in practice to help them deal with this possibility, so the Typhoon only took a couple of hits to the jaw before they found their niche. Soon, Tracy, Stacy, and Mel had second-guessing the Honu Chasers down to an art, Harry following behind a great deal more clumsily.

He was clearly the only player at a disadvantage. The three Chasers and one Seeker from the Honu were a seamless and speedy team, working well enough together while Harry struggled to keep up with three professional-level Chasers in a position he was unaccustomed to—while seeking out the Snitch. Twenty minutes of flubbed passes, near misses with the Honu Seeker, and one very sloppily executed Wronski Feint later, he was almost ready to throw in the towel.

"Bloody yanks!" he muttered irritably when Bear called a time-out as they were a narrow twenty points ahead and an hour into the game. "The Seeker isn't just a glorified Chaser! We have our own jobs to do!"

"Then do your job," Bear snapped, in no mood to take any of the normal flak. He gestured the three Chasers closer. "Mel, Stace, Trace, you all need to hog the ball a little. They may be faster than us, but they're horrible at stealing the ball away."

"We _know_, Bear," Stacy said patiently. "Harry, take a breather from Chasing, see if you can't find that Snitch. Ten minutes and then come help us out. We should be okay. Right, girls?"

Tracy and Mel, a bit out of breath, affirmed this with nods. Reluctantly, Harry shrugged. Though he'd complained, he hadn't meant to make the Chasers work harder. But, he thought as he remounted the broom and took to the sky on the updraft of roaring fans, if he could find the Snitch in that ten minutes, he could spare the Chasers a lot more trouble than he could just by acting as a fourth member of their little clique. So he kept his eyes narrowed behind his glasses, studying every inch of the Pitch for any sight of the Snitch.

"WHAT'S THIS?" he could vaguely hear the announcer shouting across the Pitch. "POTTER'S GIVING UP ALREADY?"

Quickly, he tuned the new announcer out. He'd dealt with worse; his singular goal right now was to find the Snitch. Fortunately for the Typhoon, the Honu Seeker seemed to be taking cues from him. Harry could see the thin wizard, black-haired and olive-skinned like the rest of the Honu, drifting around the other half of the Pitch, scanning the field with equal intensity. Harry kept his hands loose on the broom shaft, knowing that if it came to a dive, he had the advantage; the Honu Seeker had proved absolutely rubbish at diving after the Snitch. He was clearly better at helping the Chasers.

With the Honu Seeker following, Harry didn't have to worry about playing a fourth Chaser anymore. Soaring as high as the rules would let him (and incidentally pulling the Honu Seeker up that high as well), he drifted over the entire Pitch.

When ten minutes had passed and there had been no sight of gold among anywhere in the stands, the Honu Seeker clearly gave up and rejoined his trio of Chasers, leaving Harry no choice. The Seeker growled to himself in frustration and threw himself into trying to keep up with Melinda and the twins. He was unfortunately aware that the announcer had spent most of the game mocking him for his uncouth Chasing skills, which only increased the frustration exponentially.

"Chin up, Harry!" Tad urged as he flew close by in order to fend off a Bludger.

"Easy for you to say," Harry growled under his breath, watching Melinda execute a flawless barrel roll. "You only have one job to do."

"I heard that!" With that, Tad was gone, streaking across the Pitch after the iron ball.

Harry scowled in his general direction as he moved to catch the pass Melinda hurtled in his direction. It was then that he saw it: a flash of gold, just underneath a Honu Chaser's left shoe.

It happened so fast that even Harry and Tracy wouldn't be able to describe it. Harry jerked back in surprise as the Quaffle barrelled into his stomach at full-force, jerking his whole body backwards. Consequently, the nose of the broom shaft arced towards the sky and Harry hit a free fall backwards. As the fear superheated his veins, he wrapped himself around the Quaffle. The nose swung around in a full vertical circle on its own accord, Harry holding on for dear life. At just the right second, he threw himself forward and sent his broom into an acceleration that plastered his hair flat.

Tracy, moving forward to collect a hand-off from Harry, swerved downwards just in time. Harry threw himself sideways to avoid a collision between his boot and her forehead, stuffed the Quaffle down into the involuntarily outstretched hand, and—in one swooping motion—snatched up the Snitch from beside the Chaser's shoe.

He then forgot to duck.

* * *

"Nice shiner, mate."

The only thing that would have made the moment more humiliating, Harry decided, would have been some very inappropriate boxer shorts, like ones covered in rubber duckies or something equally inane. As it was, he was stuck in his tartan boxer shorts, exposed to what seemed to be everybody he knew, and there wasn't a bloody thing he could do about it until the healer came back and gave him a clean bill of health.

He scowled at Ron. "Yeah, well, you try pulling off a catch like that without some form of bodily injury."

Ron obviously didn't notice his best friend's perturbation at being stuck sitting on a healing table in front of everybody he knew. He grinned. "Well, on the rare instance when people actually succeed in kicking me, it's because they actually kicked me. Not because I ran into their foot."

"Sod off," Harry suggested helpfully.

Behind him, he heard Ginny sigh. "Ron, leave him alone."

"But—"

"Ronald."

Harry had been hoping that he would last the entire Open without having to visit the Athletics Healer Headquarters, so it was naturally quite disheartening that he had landed there after only one game. The fact that the room they had abandoned him in was damp and stank of stale sweat didn't lighten his mood. He should have been celebrating with the rest of his team after such a win, but he was forced to sit, all but forgotten, in a room that smelled like a jock strap.

The fact that Ron found it all funny just exacerbated matters.

"I suppose you're lucky the Seeker missed your nose," Ron said after a second of observing Harry's battered face. "It's plenty big already."

"Which one are you?" Harry sniped. "The pot or the kettle?"

"Will you two knock it off?" Ginny snapped, her patience finally evaporating. "Ron, if you don't have anything nice to say, go find one of the twins. Harry, the healer told you not to move your head. Stay still."

Harry felt a twinge of guilt as she moved into his line of sight once again. Since the healers had let her in a few minutes before, Ginny had been oddly silent, though she had spent a great deal of time pacing. His attempts at conversation had been met with monosyllabic replies; whenever he thought she might strike up a conversation or at least attempt to chide him, she just gained a fierce expression and kept silent. If he hadn't been so annoyed at being stuck in a room in only his boxers while it seemed that everybody on the team and Ron, Hermione, and Luna wandered through, he might have said something about it.

"Sorry, Ginny." Ron rolled his shoulders and studied Harry's face. "How do you feel?"

"Like I ran my face through somebody's foot, thanks." The brief spurt of pain potion the healer had shoved down his throat hadn't done much.

Before Ron could answer, the door to the small office opened and the healer that had left Harry behind aeons before finally entered. "Sorry about the hold-up, Mr. Potter," he apologised absently. He was a plain-looking man that brought the colour brown to mind, though the robe he wore was vividly purple. "It seems your stunt has the whole stadium in a tizzy."

"I've been injured worse from badly done Wronski feints," Harry grumbled, and shrank away from the stink-eye that Ginny gave him. "What? It's not really that big of a deal."

"Miss Harrow claims you were trying to kill her. She's lucky you missed, or I might have both of you in here," the healer informed him with no small amount of amusement. He handed over a vial of liquid that Harry recognised. "Drink all of that while I try to fix that shiner. It should make you feel better."

"I just hope it's extra-strength." Throwing caution and his taste buds to the wind, Harry tilted back his head and poured the liquid down his throat. He coughed once and handed the empty vial back to the healer. Already, blessedly cool numbness trickled down the right side of his face. "Gets better every time."

"If you're feeling good enough to be sarcastic, I'm pretty sure you'll be fine, Mr. Potter." The healer began to examine Harry's battered face with deft fingers that Harry couldn't feel. "You made quite a mess of your face, but a couple of restructuring spells and a bone-binding potion should clear things up right away."

Harry wanted to tell him to just fix it already, but he kept his mouth shut for fear of unleashing the monster within Ginny.

The healer was as good as his word; Harry walked out of the office no more than ten minutes later, still pulling his shirt over his head. Talking animatedly, Ron preceded him while Ginny followed at a more demure pace.

"Ron," Harry interrupted after a minute. "Do me a favour? Go see how your wife is doing or something."

Once Ron had asked a sufficient question to make sure that Harry was not actually Dermot in disguise, he left them alone. They could hear his cheerful whistling even after he'd disappeared from sight.

"He's just happy because he had some money on that game," Ginny muttered, rolling her eyes. Her expression when she looked at Harry was not perverse, though. She studied his face. "Harry, if there's one thing you should have learned at Hogwarts, it's how to duck."

Harry winced. "It must have got lost under all of that Transfiguration and Potions nonsense."

"I'm just glad you weren't hurt worse." Ginny shook her head, pushed the dark locks back from her neck. Her face was shiny from the dried sweat the Florida heat had produced, and the effect served to make her look tired. "Sorry. I don't mean to be so glum right now—I mean, that was a spectacular catch. I don't think Tracy even saw the Quaffle coming."

"I'm glad I missed." He would have never been able to live it down had he collided with Tracy. As it was, he was going to be infamous for running into the Honu Seeker's foot. He moved his hands into his pockets and tried not to think about it. "I'm sorry I scared you."

"Occupational hazard. I can imagine any athlete's girlfriend understands." Ginny mustered up something of a smile. "But the good news is that I think you can put that down as one of your more…interesting saves, don't you think?"

"It's something I'll never live down, if that's what you mean." Since the right side of his face felt plastic and foreign, he didn't try to smile. He did, however, sling an arm around her shoulders. "So, Miss Weasley, how much money did you win? Ron wasn't the only one who had money riding on the game."

Her smile was exactly what he had been intending. "Oh, I don't bet until the later games," she informed him pertly. "There's more money to be had."

They rounded the corner and entered the foyer where public access to the stadium began. Since there wasn't actually a game taking place on that particular Pitch for another couple of hours, it was all but empty. Hermione had obviously been waiting for them; she dropped the map she'd been casually studying and hurried over to intercept them. "Congratulations, Harry." It was said breathlessly, the main indication that something was happening. "Listen, get back to the hotel as fast as you can. I've already sent Ron ahead—the twins and Neville should be waiting there for you."

With that, she Apparated away. Ginny and Harry exchanged puzzled glances and followed suit.

Harry managed to avoid Apparating straight into Neville, but Ginny wasn't so lucky and stumbled over a potted fern she had completely forgotten was there. She swore viciously, but nobody so much as flickered an eyelash.

Harry needed only to glance at Neville's stony expression to know that something bad had happened at some point during the game. "What's up?" he asked, vaulting over the couch to join the others in the small lounge. "Any word on Dermot?"

"Your man Chris Gingham is determined to make our jobs as hard as possible," George grumbled, and handed Harry the front section of a local magical newspaper. Harry unfolded it to see a large shot of Chris Gingham smiling and shaking hands with some Quidditch official or other. "You and 'Amy Mason' are to attend some sort of charity function tonight. A chance for him to show off the Typhoon. Open admittance. It's going to be a security nightmare."

Harry felt like crumpling the newspaper, but he just passed it over to Ginny.

"Any chance Chris is Dermot?" Neville asked.

"Quite a large one." Ron worried his bottom lip as he mulled over the problem. "Fred? George? How susceptible are you to a plan that involves breaking the law?"

"Oh, very," Fred volunteered for both himself and his twin brother, his expression caught in a fine juxtaposition between grim and mischievous.

"In the meantime, Ginny, you're coming down with a nasty case of some kind of flu in about two hours, brought on by something magical you ate. You're not going to be well until tomorrow morning, unfortunately." Ron's calculating glance moved to Harry. "That's actually a good chance to get you out of the function early, Harry. I want you to appear distracted tonight, and bow out as early as you can. That'll give Ginny's 'flu' some credibility."

It was truly a sign of just how much Ginny was worried about Dermot, for she agreed to "come down with a nasty magical bug" without any sort of protest at all. Before long, Ron had dispatched Fred and George off on a mission he wouldn't describe to the others, claiming that he and Luna would take up post at the function that evening to watch Harry's back. Fred, George, Hermione, and Neville would stay with Ginny, and the Darrows would have the evening off. It was done with speedy dispatch.

"This is just the first hurtle," Ron muttered in an aside to Harry, once he was sure that Ginny could overhear him. "With the ownership switching hands, who knows how much more of this we'll have to face before we can lay our trap?"

Harry could not think of an answer.

Nearly an hour later, Fred and George returned with the news that no, Chris Gingham was most assuredly none other than Chris Gingham. Better yet, they said, the function Harry was attending tonight would have free punch.

* * *

In the end, all seven members of the Typhoon were shanghaied into attending Chris Gingham's charity function, with varying degrees of willingness. Tad and Frank seemed as though they longed to be nowhere else as they greeted fans and signed autographs, telling boisterous jokes and drawing the largest crowd between them. Melinda politely gave those interested her attention, but she lacked the Beaters' charisma. Tracy and Chris were both popular; Bear and Stacy could have made matching dour bookends; Harry, true to his word to Ron, was distracted and testy, meaning that very few fans approached him. He was lucky that most of the Americans weren't as impressed with his status. Besides, the Typhoon players were viewed as the "out of town" team, so they weren't nearly as popular as the American Quidditch Team or the local Orlando Craze.

"See anything yet?" Harry muttered when Ron, masquerading as a fan of the Sacramento Bees, came up for an autograph.

"Either he's not here or he already came and realised that Ginny's not here," Ron replied, and stared sceptically at the signature Harry had scrawled on his notepad. "Geez, mate, you have the most terrible penmanship I've seen."

Harry caught a glimpse of Luna, in her capacity as one of the evening's many reporters, as he rolled his eyes.

The meet-and-greet was being held for all the teams not currently playing in a local convention centre, charmed so that Muggles would conveniently forget about its existence for the evening. It was held in an open foyer that was just what Ron had predicted it would be: a security nightmare. It was impossible to locate a single figure in such a milling crowd. The teams, positioned at the edges and separated from the crowd by a line of velvety rope, were grouped together. The fans could move along the guide rope and get an autograph from every player if they wished.

Harry figured Ginny had probably known about the event, but had managed to get the Typhoon out of attending. Unfortunately, the new ownership meant that Chris Gingham would be springing these events on them all through the tournament, Harry had no doubt.

"Hey, Potter, are you all right?" Tracy asked, moving away from Chris's side. Harry had already apologised thrice for nearly killing her during the game, but that hadn't spared him from any of the good-natured ribbing from the team members.

"I'm fine," Harry replied shortly. "Do you have any idea what time this will be over? I really should get back—I don't like being here when Amy's undoubtedly on her own leaning over the toilet bowl or something. She at least needs somebody to hold her hair."

"Chris says five more minutes should do it. The crowd's already starting to break up." Tracy gave him an apologetic look. "Tell Amy I hope she feels better quick?"

"Sure, sure."

Tracy took a glossy 8x10 from a fan and scrawled her name above her grinning mug, passing the picture over for Harry to complete. "Fine job my sister and Bear are doing about keeping a happy front up, don't you think?"

Harry spared them a glance. Stacy had her arms crossed and was staring into the distance; since all of the fans had pretty much left them alone, Bear was scowling at the far wall. Together, they made a frightful picture. "Yeah," he agreed, shaking his head. "What's up with the pair of them, anyway? I walked into one of their rows today."

"Bear's not too fond of the git my sister's been seeing these past three weeks." Tracy smiled, a bit of conspiracy in her mirth. "For the top Chaser and Keeper in the league, they're very…short-sighted, don't you think?"

Since he couldn't leave for the next three minutes anyway, Harry filled her in on the dare he had given Bear earlier. She found it appropriately funny.

Ron wandered up to the pair of them, closing the notebook he'd been using to collect autographs. "Hullo, Harry. I've got autographs from all of the Bismarck Flickertails. What the devil is a flickertail, anyway?"

"Tracy, meet my good friend Ron Weasley," Harry said politely. "Ron, this is Tracy Harrows. The one with the good left arm."

"And other stellar qualities," Tracy added, shaking Ron's hand. "Always nice to meet a friend of a friend. Are you at the tournament to support the team or just random coincidence?"

"Oh, I'm here to win some quid off of Harry's wins," Ron replied airily.

Tracy laughed. "Well, we'll try to win a few for you, then."

Harry turned to mention to Tracy that Ron had won a very impressive fifteen pounds off of them earlier that day—and had ended up with fifteen pounds of chicken from a clueless American bookie. Mid-move, he stopped. Something wasn't right there. Quickly, his eyes scanned back and forth over the crowd, searching, seeking, but he saw nothing, nothing out of the ordinary.

"I appreciate that," Ron told Tracy, removing the autograph collection book from his pocket once more. "Listen, I was wondering if I could perhaps get an autograph? Just to prove to my girlfriend I met the best looking member of the Typhoon?"

Harry continued to search fruitlessly. A vendor was trying to hawk various pennants and T-shirts from the Open. Harry's eyes passed over him, ignored a group of thirteen-year-old boys that were crowded suspiciously around a photograph of some sort. He scanned the rafters of the building, though they told him nothing.

"That might do you any favours," Tracy said to Ron, taking the book from him, "but sure, whatever your poison—"

"Get down!"

Inexplicably, he shouted it; instinctively, he lunged forward, catching both Tracy and Ron in a flying tackle that clattered them to the floor.

It wasn't quick enough. Just as he hit his friends, explosions, loud, long, and sharp, rent the air, filling his ears. Three of them, in staccato succession, as he ran into Ron and Tracy. Warm liquid spattered his face; they landed in a heap of discombobulated limbs, so entangled that Harry took an elbow to the face.

The after-effects were immediate. Screams tore through the centre. Stomping sounded, people running. Gunfire, Harry realised. It had been gunfire! Chaos burst into furious bloom. Everywhere, people scattered for the edges, hiding behind whatever they could find.

And Ron Weasley let out an oath that would make even the dirtiest of mouths widen in shock.

"I'm hit!"

A/N The Second: I'm evil. Yes, I know this. Yes, I expect a lot of reviews that tell me exactly that. Fire away.


	14. Amber of My Eye

Acknowledgements: First and foremost, I'd like to thank Shalli, who pre-beta'd last chapter and helped name the Bendigo Bunyips. She also gets on my case about my 'strine and something about hitting crow _en flambé _with rocks. Also, I'd like to thank my parents. Just because.

A/N: I tried to get this chapter out fast because I know how much the ending to last chapter sucked for all of you, so it's a little shorter than most chapters (they usually range about 9-10 pages, and this one's about 7). Keep your eyes open for a longer chapter next time.

Disclaimer: You know the drill. You've been here all these chapters. JKR owns it all, Warner Brothers has some of it, and I have none.

Chapter Fourteen: Amber of my Eye

"I'm hit!"

Tracy's anguished shout shattered the chaos and the terror.

Ron and Harry hastily untangled themselves from the pile, manhandling Tracy roughly in their haste to make sure that none of her vital organs were hit. Neither had forgotten that they were still in danger; they dragged Tracy behind a column, carrying her between the two of them. Not for the first time, Harry was grateful that Tracy and Stacy were both rather short and small; he could keep his wand out without having to juggle it. Uselessly, he pointed it all around them, but there were no further gunshots.

"Where? Where are you hit?" Ron asked Tracy.

Harry saw Chris and Stacy behind another pillar and motioned frantically for them to stay put until the threat had been contained. There was no doubt in his mind who had shot Tracy; he knew Dermot would pick off as many of his team members as he could.

"My leg—" Tracy's grimace spoke volumes. She was clutching the limb, her face squeezed and contorted from the agony. "Shot my leg—"

"I've got it," Ron mouthed to Harry, who nodded and set to search the rafters for any sign of Dermot. He couldn't remember how many shots had been fired; was Tracy the only one hit? Quickly, his eyes swept over the crowd. They were still running around in utter panic, but he didn't see anybody hit. Nobody was crowded around a fallen comrade. Were the situation any less dire, he might have found the sight of the entire team from Alabama huddled behind a simple blue mailbox amusing.

"I don't see him," he told Ron in an undertone. Ron had busily cut away the robes from Tracy's thigh down and was regarding the bloody mess underneath with a cool eye. "I think he split."

"Good. Call for a healer. She just got grazed, but I think it hit a major vein."

Harry signalled the Healer, who had burst onto the scene in bright purple robes. Stacy and Chris took this as their cue to race from behind the other pillar. Their frantic questions tumbled over one another as Ron and Tracy tried their hardest to downplay the situation. Meanwhile, Harry continued to search, to no avail.

"What's going on?" Chris asked Harry. His styled coif was mussed from the dive he'd taken to roll out of the way; Harry wondered if he knew that he was bleeding from a cut on his cheek. "You look like you know what's happened—"

"I don't," Harry interrupted shortly. "I just know what gunfire sounds like."

Chris regarded Harry suspiciously only for a minute before he turned back to his girlfriend, now being looked after by the healer. A few seconds later, Luna squeezed into the remaining space behind their pillar, a bit white but still pleasantly unaffected. "I spotted him, but it was too late," she told Harry, not bothering to keep her voice low.

Before Harry could even so much as grimace, Chris had jumped all over the problem. "You saw him?" he demanded fiercely, eyes burning.

Luna looked back at him, unfazed. "Yes. He really doesn't have the head shape for it, but he keeps his hair shaved."

"You'll have to tell the Aurors—"

Tracy swore loudly enough to break off all conversation as the cut was fixed up on her leg. "Sorry," the Healer said, without sounding sorry at all. "I'm fresh out of pain potion. You're lucky—I think you're the only one that was hit."

"How does that make me lucky?" Tracy groused at him, rubbing a hand over the newly healed cut.

Far too late, Aurors swarmed the convention centre, arriving in a black-robed whirl of businesslike voices and barked orders. The members of the Nottingham Typhoon were interrogated with surprising efficiency by an Auror that looked to be no older than fifteen. He took down Luna's description without an expression and disappeared after collecting names and even a few autographs. His order, called absently over his shoulder as he walked away, ensured that the Nottingham Typhoon would be there for quite some time.

"They just make them younger and younger," Harry remarked, rubbing a hand through his hair. "I hope that Hermione and Amy aren't waiting by the wireless."

"Oh, they are." Ron's expression was almost cheerful, but Harry knew that his best friend was feeling the very same guilt that Harry himself was experiencing. They both knew the bald truth: they had lured Dermot there. Without them there, Tracy would not have been shot, nor would such a panic have happened. They hadn't underestimated the man in general, but they _had _underestimated what he would do when he found out that Ginny was not in attendance. "Guess that's confirmation that Dermot was planning a large attack tonight."

"I could do without confirmation involving taking sniper shots at my team-mates," Harry remarked dourly.

"Oh, he was aiming for you," Luna said from her seat by a water fountain, looking bored and thoroughly detached from the happenings all around them. "I saw the black thing, but I didn't know what it was."

"Why didn't you try to stop him?" Ron asked.

Luna looked at him with unfocused eyes, the same ones that had always disturbed Harry. "I didn't see him soon enough."

Ron opened his mouth, but Harry shot him a look. "Drop it. She doesn't know what a sniper rifle looks like, and very well she shouldn't."

Obviously disgusted, Ron shook his head.

"You three." Another Auror, this one older and harder in the lines of his face, approached them from the gaggle of law enforcement officers. His expression was grim. "Word has it that the sniper—that's Muggle for person who shoots bullets at people—was aiming for you three. Do you have any idea why?"

Harry and Ron exchanged a dubious look. The Auror and Luna might not have seen it, but a hurried and silent conversation took place in the space of seconds. Decision made, Harry turned back to the Auror. "Sir, I'm Harry Potter," he said, politely but firmly. "I have had Voldemort and his supporters out for my blood since before I could walk. It's possible that this is an ex-follower of Voldemort that decided magical means weren't good enough to kill me."

"Our Muggle experts are saying that this was the work of a professional sniper," the Auror said suspiciously, thumbing his moustache and watching Harry's eyes.

He was surprised that the Auror force here had "Muggle experts," let alone ones that could tell the difference between an amateur and a professional sniper. But he refused to let this show. "Then I don't know, sir," he said, shrugging. "I'll stand by my theory unless you can come up with something better."

The Auror asked them the usual questions—where they had been standing, had they seen the shooter, what happened when the shooting started (Harry fibbed a little here and said that he had hit Ron and Tracy after he heard all the gun shots). Like his underling, he asked for names and contact information. Finally, he announced them free to go. Luna bade them good night there and Apparated straight back to her room. Ron and Harry checked on Tracy, who testily assured them that she was just fine and had suffered worse during matches, so why didn't they leave her alone? Chris shook their hands, thanking Harry profusely and apologising for Tracy's disgruntled attitude. Harry endured a hug from Stacy before he Apparated back to the hotel—and ran straight into Ginny.

She'd obviously been pacing, for he appeared and she walked right into him with enough force to send both of them tumbling. Harry managed to catch himself on his elbows, cushioning Ginny's fall with his own body. She didn't even climb off of him before she launched into her tirade.

"Where have you been? We heard on the wireless that there had been a shooting but when you didn't Floo or even call the hotel, we thought for sure you'd been hit—"

"Tracy was," Harry interrupted.

Ginny stilled. "Tracy was what?"

"Hit. Dermot clipped her leg—he might have done worse if I hadn't pushed her out of the way." Propped up on his elbows was a strange place to have this conversation, especially with everybody in the other half of the room, staring at the pair of them on the floor. "She's _fine_," he added, predicting her next question. "The Healer patched her up and she growled at all of us. I think she was more embarrassed than anything else, but she's fine, and she was the only one hit. We're all okay—though my back's a little sore with you on top of me like this."

Belatedly, Ginny crawled off of him. "I swear, when we find that man, I'm going to strangle him with my bare hands!"

Hermione cleared her throat, bringing all of those assembled into Harry's notice. "Are you two finished yet?" Harry noticed that she was gripping Ron's arm tightly, her knuckles starkly red and white.

"We're done," he replied, climbing to his feet. "Sorry to have scared you all. The Aurors made us stay behind after everybody else, and there wasn't a handy Floo portal accessible."

"It's okay, Harry." Hermione rolled her shoulders and Harry could almost literally see the stress begin to evaporate in the air around her. "We've been using the time wisely. Well, most of us." She rolled her eyes in Ginny's direction.

"She means to say those of us that weren't pacing like lunatics," Ginny muttered under her breath, explaining for Harry's benefit.

"Where are Fred and George?" Ron asked suddenly, looking around.

"One's posted himself as a potted fern outside of the suite Tracy, Stacy, and Chris are sharing, and the other's a coat rack on the floor where the rest of the team are staying," Neville recited. "Scotty Darrow and I will replace them in a few hours. When did you say the back up teams you requested were arriving, Hermione?"

"We're calling back up in to this?" Ron demanded.

"Unfortunately, it's necessary. Dermot has escalated so much faster than predicted if he's already willing to use the Typhoon as collateral." Hermione pushed her fingers clockwise on her temples, closing her eyes briefly. Harry felt a brief spurt of guilt that turned to relief when Ron finally made his wife sit down. "Oh, honestly," she protested, but everybody in the room looked so stern that she gave in.

"I can take a shift," Harry offered guiltily, "since they're my team members he's going after."

"No," Ron, Hermione, and Ginny said at the same time. Ginny continued, "You need your rest for the next game. You need to stay in the Open as long as you can so that we have time to get the trap set up."

Though he didn't like the thought of leaving all of the protection to the others, Harry couldn't deny that Ginny had a point. He frowned as he nodded.

"Neville, do you have any protests to doing some footwork?" Ron asked, tugging his robes off. Underneath, patches of sweat had sprouted on his jeans and black T-shirt, after-effects from the shooting. "We're going back to the convention centre to see if we can dig up any clues that the Aurors are bound to overlook."

"Count me in," Neville told him, looking grimly determined.

Once Neville and Ron had taken off, and Hermione had slipped through the door that adjoined her suite to theirs, Harry and Ginny were finally left alone. Harry collapsed immediately onto the sofa, finally allowing himself to feel the drag of a long and complicated day in his bones.

"I have a game tomorrow, and all I want to do is sleep for the next week," he groused, lifting his head from the cushion. "When does Ron think we'll set that trap?"

"It varies from day to day." Ginny sighed and scrubbed at her face with both hands. She sat down gingerly on the arm of the sofa, her eyes on him. "Do you think he was really aiming for Tracy? Or was he trying to hit you or Ron?"

Harry replayed the frantic minute of diving at Ron and Tracy in his mind, mulling it over. How had he known that something was going to happen? Had he seen something? He didn't recall anything, so maybe it had been subliminal, below the surface. But would seeing a sniper rifle register for him? He hadn't watched much Muggle television or films, so he was only vaguely aware of how one looked. So why had it invoked that terrible sense of dread…

Dread.

Harry sat bolt upright and immediately felt like kicking himself. "Ginny," he said slowly, trying to compile all the thoughts in his head to make sure they made sense, "Dermot—how does he act? Like, at first? When he's still in his 'stalking his prey' mode? Does he—does he deliver warnings or anything like that?"

"That's his favourite thing to do," Ginny replied, puzzled. "Why? He's been delivering warnings the whole time—personally at Tony's that time, through that note he left in the door. Since his last attempt failed when you got into a fistfight with him, he'd logically start the stalking process all over again. Warnings and such."

"Because, and this is just a thought, I think that's what he did tonight." The exhaustion had dissipated, leaving nothing but a frantic sort of energy behind. Harry launched himself to his feet, began to pace. "Right before the shots were fired, I felt dread. Like something horrible was about to happen."

"It was," Ginny confirmed, still confused.

"Right. But I've never shown that much divining talent before. And I really don't think I spotted the gun or anything amiss."

"Well—" Ginny trailed off and her eyes widened. When she had worked through the problem, she swore softly and viciously, almost too quietly for Harry to hear her. "The dread spell? He hit you with the dread spell? The one that makes you more aware of imminent danger?"

Solemnly, Harry moved his chin up and down once.

Ginny stood up and kicked the sofa, leaving a largish dent in the side. "Now he's just playing with us." She snarled it at the wall. "Sodding fine mouse we make!"

* * *

It was strange to have her own bed again.

Since it was likely that Ron and the twins would be in and out of the hotel room like they owned the place, Harry and Ginny had silently and mutually agreed to take their own rooms in the hotel suite. Ginny hadn't been too bothered by it; in fact, she had almost looked forward to having her own bed. She sprawled in her sleep, and she didn't imagine that it was too comfortable for Harry. She felt bad for him since she and Neville had basically stolen his flat from him, but he had never complained. Well, she thought to herself, turning over to face the wall that held a very bland and boring portrait of cattails in a swamp, at least he'd get the whole bed to sleep in tonight. It was the very least she could do.

The latest and scariest encounter with Dermot had her wide awake, even though weariness tugged listlessly at her limbs and refused to let go. To compensate, she lay still, staring at the cattails dipping into the marsh. Logically, she knew that none of this was _her _fault. This was Dermot's fault. But…without Ginny at the Open, Tracy wouldn't have been shot tonight. So she couldn't help but feel that ridiculous and illogical tightening knot of guilt in her stomach. She wondered if the healers had released Tracy yet, if the other woman was asleep or maybe having a drink to get rid of nerves. She thought of her brothers and their relentless hunt for Dermot, all for her.

She thought of Harry and was unable to erase the sight of him, beaten and broken, sitting in Ron's room at the Burrow with that adolescent anger vibrating on the surface. The fight with Dermot had uncovered a jarring display of the chip on his shoulder he'd carried as a youth. The temperature in her room dropped ten degrees; she shivered. If Dermot won, would Harry lose it? Would he lose everything he had worked so hard after Hogwarts to achieve? Would Hermione be able to help him rebuild it?

There was too much space on this bed, she decided as she rolled over yet again, to stare at a similar and still boring shot of yet more cattails over a bog. She had too much space to sprawl, which made her feel very small and—

A soft tap on the door interrupted her thoughts. It was just the one sound, as though whoever it was on the other side of the door didn't want to risk waking her if she was already asleep. Immediately, Ginny reached for her wand on the night-stand. "Hello?" she called towards the door, wand up and ready.

Slowly, the door creaked open. The sliver of light in its corner grew to a wide, bright square. Ginny blinked.

"Ginny? Still awake?"

It was Harry, more mussed than usual so that his hair stuck out in absolutely comical patterns. He lingered in the doorway, a timorous slope to his shoulders.

"Sleep's not my friend," Ginny replied, lowering her wand slightly and finally dropping it when Harry recited, in order, most of what had happened in the Department of Mysteries. "What are you still doing awake? You have a game tomorrow."

Harry shrugged and looked down at the carpet in front of his socked feet. "I, er, I wanted to make sure you were all right."

Ginny blinked at the showcase of nerves. "I'm fine," she said uncertainly.

"Oh. Okay." Harry turned to head back into the main room of the suite and then stopped, obviously thinking better of it. It took an eternity for his gaze to return to Ginny, and he looked down quickly. "I feel incredibly foolish. D'you mind if I stay in here a bit? I—I just don't want…" He trailed off with a frustrated sweep of his hand. "I'll sleep in the chair over there or on the floor, even."

Because it would do neither of them any favours, Ginny stamped down on the laughter that threatened to bubble up in her throat. The entire situation was awkward, and Harry made it endearingly so by shifting nervously from foot to foot.

"Don't be ridiculous," she replied, setting the wand back on the bedside table. By doing so, she missed seeing Harry's face fall. "I'm not going to let you sleep on the floor, Harry. You can get into the bed like a proper adult. Just, er, lock the door so that none of the idiots that call themselves my brother burst in without knocking."

An easy smile finally crossed Harry's face. "I'll be sure to hide in the closet should that happen."

Ginny shook her head. "If you're forced to hide in the closet, I'm going to feel very fifteen again," she groused, and scooted over to the side she normally took up at the Hutch. "Look—more room on this bed. Hey, maybe I won't even hog the covers tonight."

"I doubt that very much."

Ginny stuck her tongue out at him, but she wasn't sure he saw it in the darkness.

Now that he wasn't worried about being turned down cold, Harry allowed the exhaustion to show on his face as he crawled into the bed and worked his way underneath the covers. "Bloody long day," he muttered.

"Get some sleep," Ginny instructed. "You've got a game tomorrow. And sleep well." But he was already out cold by the time she finished. She shook her head at him and hunkered down onto the sheets. Before long, she too was dead to the world, curled up with her back pushed against his side.

* * *

Ginny had forgotten to mention to the Nottingham Typhoon that it rained a lot in Florida. They might not have minded, for England always seemed to produce rain whenever big games came around. But this wasn't the cold drizzle from England. This was warm and sticky, washing away the sweat as soon as it popped up and generally making everything miserable. There was no relief in this rain, just an enduring warmth that made Harry set his teeth.

"Please, whatever you do, find the Snitch," Stacy begged as she passed him in flight. "Spare us any more agony! Please!"

Harry offered her a tight-lipped smile in reply.

It was the day after the shooting. The Typhoon was already back on its feet, raring to go against the newest enemy, another foreign team called the Bendigo Bunyips. Their robes were a sky blue, an effective tactic on a sunny day but useless on a rainy day such as the one they were suffering through currently. A patch of the Australian flag sat on the left shoulder of every team member, opposite a patch of a strange creature that vaguely looked like a walrus had mated with a dragon and had left some very unfortunate offspring behind. They swapped gibes back and forth; Harry caught about every other word.

The best thing about them was that they played proper Quidditch. Harry was free to act solely as a Seeker, a fact that made the unbearably warm rain somewhat more tolerable. He wasn't the only one who felt this way; he could see relief in his opponent's face even from over a hundred metres away.

Tracy flew by him, offering him a reassuring smile in the process. She'd joked before the game had started that she was going to start carrying around a sign that said, "I'm fine, thanks for asking" because so many people kept asking her how she felt. She hadn't seemed all that affected by the fact that she had been hit by a sniper just the night before. In fact, she and Stacy had an air of jollity about the whole thing. Chris had come into the locker room to gift Tracy with a purely Muggle contraption that he called a "kevlar vest," whatever that meant. He'd claimed that he couldn't find shin guards made of the stuff for her, so she should just avoid getting shot in the future. The team had made her wear the vest until they came out onto the Pitch.

"See the Snitch yet?" Frank asked as he chased a Bludger down. Even the rain hadn't managed to wipe away his everlasting grin.

"I'd be moving a little faster if I'd seen the Snitch, don't you think?" Harry replied.

"True! Just checking to make sure you're not just missing it on purpose! Because that's considered cruelty!"

Inadvertently, Harry's gaze wandered to the press boxes, where he knew Ron, Hermione, and now Tara Staples and Euan Abercrombie were clustered around Ginny on all sides. Ginny's best friend had arrived that morning, rousting them both from bed without a single word of apology. Harry didn't know how he was going to get any sleep with Tara and Euan staying with them now. He'd make do, he supposed, but it would be very crowded and hectic. Oh, who was he kidding? It was already crowded and hectic to the point of insanity in the suite.

"Keeping your mind on the game, Potter?" Stacy rolled to catch a pass and fired it off to Mel.

Harry gritted his teeth and nodded. Was every single member of the Typhoon on a personal mission to pester him?

_Time to see what the Australians have for me_, he decided. The only way to get his team-mates to leave him alone was to somehow join the game. Since there wasn't a Snitch in sight, he'd have to make one up. He made sure that the Australian Seeker wasn't paying close attention to him, and then made a very large and ostentatious jump into a dive. The wind flattened his hair to his skull, but he made sure not to intensify the dive until the Bunyips Seeker had caught on and was on his tail. Then he shoved the nose of his broom down, ignoring the cries of the wind in his ears that mingled with the announcer's demands to know if Harry had actually seen the Snitch—there was the ground—he jerked the handle up hard and fast, using his velocity to shoot upwards.

He glanced over his shoulder just in time to see the Bunyip Seeker flail and narrowly miss the ground. The man sent him a dirty look, to which Harry just smirked and tapped his finger to his forehead in a salute. It was then that he discovered that the bird was an international signal.

Harry returned to flying above his team's goal posts, close enough so that he and Bear could shout at each other. "He's good!" Bear called to him. "That one usually works!"

"Good, but gullible," Harry agreed. "Seen the Snitch yet?"

"Do your own job, mate!"

The Bunyips and the Typhoon were pretty evenly matched, especially since their Seekers were operating solely as Seekers. Tracy, Stacy, and Mel were pulling out all of the stops, but nothing they did could pull them significantly ahead of the other team. It would come down to a battle of the Seekers. As the points continued to rack up for them and against them, Harry's gaze intensified. Only the lukewarm rain dripping down the back of his neck disturbed him.

When the score was tied at an even three hundred, and the Snitch had been spotted twice only to have it disappear only instants after the sighting, the Australian Seeker decided to repay the favour. Through the corner of his eye, Harry saw his opponent move. A flash of gold stopped him when he swivelled around to tear off after the other Seeker.

By the time the other Seeker noticed that Harry wasn't falling for his feint, it was too late. Harry emerged from a short and fast dive with his hand wrapped around the walnut-sized ball, waving it triumphantly. "Better luck next time," he called.

"Bloke needs to get a bigger vocabulary of hand signals," Bear decided as Harry flew up to him, having been a recipient of the bird yet again. "C'mon. Let's skip the victory lap and get out of this _rain_!"

Not a single member of the team opposed this idea, so they flew straight for the player's doors, thirsty to get inside where the cool air blitzed them. Once they were inside, the women didn't even let Harry set his broom to the side before they started the hugging ritual that took place after every game. Harry went down on one knee, laughing, as Stacy and Mel piled atop of him. The laughter quickly changed to grunts when Frank and Tad joined the mix. Flashbulbs went off; reporters hastened to the scene in hopes of catching quotes and pictures from the victors.

"Get off, you oaf!" Harry laughed as Tad insisted on scooping him up in a huge bear hug.

"Sure thing!" Tad howled as he let go—and Harry promptly landed flat on his rump, his wet boots losing their traction on the polished floor.

The sight of so many flashbulbs blinded him and he put up a hand to block his eyes. When he lowered it, he was attacked. Ginny barrelled into him, dropping to her knees at the last second so that she skidded across the wet floor. Even more flashbulbs exploded light onto the scene when she kissed him, hard and long, in front of the team. Tad and Frank whooped like adolescents; Harry was amazed that they refrained from jumping around like gorillas. "Your parents are going to love _that_ picture," Harry told her as they climbed to their feet.

"Oh, my parents are happy for us and you know it," Ginny replied, laughing. Harry kept his arm around her shoulders, since she was already wet enough not to mind.

Now that he was on his feet, the reporters weren't interested in him anymore. They were clamouring to get a comment from either Tracy, or Chris (who had joined them around the same time as Ginny). "Miss Harrows—can you comment on last night?"

"Miss Harrows, how is your leg today?"

"Is it true that you know the sniper?"

"Miss Harrows, 'Wizard Chef' readers want to know—what's your favourite type of sandwich—?"

Tracy rolled her eyes. "Peanut butter and barbecue sauce! No comment!"

Ginny moved her head so that her lips were close to his ear. "Ron's picked a date."

"A date for what?" Tracy and Chris were already attempting to make their escape into the locker room, a hard feat with hordes of reporters and photographers blocking the path. He saw impending disaster as Tad and Frank began to roll up their sleeves.

"For—you know. My ex-boyfriend."

Dermot, Harry realised. Ron had picked a date to lay the trap for Dermot, and to set the plan that Harry and Ginny had worked on for months into motion. The thought of it made his belly drop somewhere into the region around his ankles, but he kept a smile on his face. Since they had to keep the façade up so that they could communicate under the noise of the reporters firing questions and the players shouting, "No comment!" he nuzzled her neck and kept his eyes on his team-mates. "Yeah? When?"

"You're playing the Bismarck Flickertails on Friday. We're going then, during your game."

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but shut it very quickly. That was an argument they could have in private.

Meanwhile, "convulsive" was the word best used to describe what had become of the Nottingham Typhoon. Harry and Ginny stood in the back of the group, so they had perhaps the best seats to view what happened next: a man burst through the crowd of reporters and headed for Stacy. Harry didn't think it was his imagination that she paled and glanced swiftly at Bear before the man reached her and gave her a kiss that was entirely too steamy to be given in a hallway filled with reporters and photographers.

"Hold on a minute," Harry muttered to Ginny, and broke away from her. Without knowing precisely why, he aimed for Bear—and grabbed the other man's arm just in time to keep him from stalking up to Stacy and the stranger. "Hey, Bear. How's it going?"

"Get your hands off of me," Bear snarled softly, quietly enough so that none of the press noticed.

Harry tightened his grip. "I don't think that's such a good idea, mate."

Bear tried to yank his arm away, but Harry had expected this. "He's not good enough for her!"

"I think that's for her to decide." Harry kept his voice even, though he found himself agreeing with Bear. Stacy was unnaturally tense even though she was still lip-locked with the stranger. When he finally let her go, she took a very telling step back.

"He's all over her," Bear growled, resigning himself to the fact that Harry wasn't letting go. He eyed Harry's hand venomously. "I'm not going to attack them. Mind letting me go now?"

"I have your word that you're not going to attack them or embarrass Stacy in front of the press?" He'd come to discover that the three Chasers were very much like sisters to him now; he didn't want anything bad or even ambiguous befalling any of them, especially things they had no way to stop. It was his duty to keep Bear from ruining Stacy's reputation in front of the Associated Press. If that meant making an enemy of his captain, so be it.

Bear glowered. "I won't say anything to her."

"Or him?"

"Or him. Let me go, Potter."

Harry waited a beat before he released the Keeper. Bear sent him one final poisonous look before he stalked away and into the locker room. Harry didn't miss the fact that Stacy craned her neck to watch him go.

Feeling very tired all of a sudden, Harry scanned the crowd for the other Tunnel members before he left Ginny outside the locker room and headed in to join his team. The thought that they were going to try and trap Dermot in the next game made victory suddenly seem very, very sour.

**A/N the Second: I don't know when the next chapter's coming out, unfortunately. But I am working on a recaplet from each chapter since I have a feeling it might be awhile. Keep an eye on my profile--I'll post it there.**


	15. Amethyst Maelstrom

**Disclaimer: Once again, the concept of Harry Potter and all related characters belongs to J.K.R., Time Warner, Bloomsbury Publishing, and whomever else. The author of this fanfic wishes to make it known that she is not incurring anything more than pure enjoyment from writing this story.**

**A/N: Okay, I owe everybody a huge apology for the amount of time this chapter took. I've decided, as you've probably heard, just to keep rolling forward as though the Sixth Book hadn't changed minor details like Harry and Ginny dating. If you look at my profile, you will see the Rough Guide to the Garnet Snitch, if you need to be caught up on what's happened before this. This is the chapter that sets up the final two chapters, so we're heading into the home stretch. And I'll try not to take as long on the next chapter, but being a full time student, working three jobs, and having an active social life tends to slow any progress.**

**Without further ado, enjoy!**

**Chapter Fifteen: Amethyst Maelstrom**

Since they'd won the last game, time seemed to exist on two very different and unequal levels, either choosing to crawl by at a pace that would make a snail raise its eyebrows in wonder, or just speeding by fast enough to dizzy up anybody caught in its claws. A couple of days of this was all it took for Harry to get exasperated with it all.

It wasn't as though he had nothing to do. The truth was, he had plenty. Chris Gingham had ignored Stacy and Tracy and had tanked forward with plans and ideas for increased publicity. There were newspaper shoots, interviews, people to meet beyond every corner. The members of the Tunnel keeping an eye on Ginny were constantly forced to adapt to Chris introducing "just this one last person, I really think you should meet him/her/them, Amy." By the time that the night before the next game rolled around, everybody was physically exhausted from all the scares they'd had and Harry thought he'd seen at least two voodoo dolls being passed around that looked remarkably like a certain team owner he knew.

Ron made the decision to cut Neville, Luna, and the twins loose the night before the big game, telling them to go out and enjoy themselves, while he and Hermione parked themselves in Harry's hotel suite with a deck of cards. They'd whiled away an hour bickering, and already Harry was ready to strangle them. Euan and Tara had escaped long before under the flimsy excuse that there was perhaps a film in the cinemas that they were missing.

Harry sat at the desk the hotel suite afforded, a stack of parchment piled up before him. Ginny had taken the smarter route and had pled exhaustion, retiring early to the bedroom. Harry had no doubt he'd later find her curled up around a book. He wished he could use the same excuse, but the truth was, he'd let his associations get rather lax with all the Tunnel business. So he forced himself to focus on the letters. They were mostly to business contemporaries in whom Harry had invested a few Galleons here or there. He hated this sort of upkeep, but it was necessary.

Very few of those businesses had any idea that they were actually funding an underground organisation. Normally this amused Harry, but tonight there was very little amusement to be found anywhere.

"There's an article in here about the Typhoon Scandal," Hermione commented, folding up the day-old copy of the _Daily Prophet_. "Several analysts are predicting that this could put most of the members of the party away for good."

"What about Malfoy?" Ron asked immediately, his eyes narrowing.

Hermione shook her head. "They have plenty of evidence, but it's likely he'll only serve ten years. Seven, if he behaves well."

"In Azkaban?" Harry asked interestedly, looking up from his letter.

"No, a medium-security prison. One of the ones that they started up a couple of years ago…I imagine it'll be Langoliyer, since Geroodhain seems to be more for manslaughter and other crimes like that. The evidence of him not being a Death Eater is still holding up, so it's not enough to send him to Azkaban." Hermione frowned at that, but let it go with a small shrug. She shot a quelling look at Ron before he could begin a tirade. "But I suppose we'll have to take what we can get. Shall we go over the plan once more?"

Harry was about to agree, for he wanted to be absolutely certain that there were no holes, but the bedroom door opened and Ginny emerged, considerably dishevelled. She blinked out at them from underneath a curtain of hair. When she spoke, her voice was sloppy with sleep. "You're still here?"

To Harry's relief, Ron bit back his sarcastic response. "We were about to go over the plans for tomorrow," Hermione informed Ginny kindly as the redhead yawned and finger-combed her hair.

"Oh." Ginny flopped onto the couch. "Can't hurt anything, I suppose. Fire away."

Hermione opened her mouth—and a knock sounded on the door. Harry stuck his wand in the side of his waistband and motioned for them to remain seated, out of the line of sight from the door. He then rose to answer the door himself.

Stacy and Tracy were ranged on the other side of the door, their expressions on opposite sides of the emotional spectrum. "Hey, Harry," Tracy greeted cheerfully. She held up a bag of crisps and what Harry vaguely recognised as a Muggle DVD. "Are you and Amy busy? Stacy's being a spoilsport tonight, so I'm trying my hardest to cheer her up."

Behind him, Harry heard the faintest sounds of Ron and Hermione clearing out and escaping through the door adjoining their suites. "We're not busy. Having a bit of a night in. Come on in," he said easily once they were clear. He moved to the side of the door and let the twins enter, checking the picture Hermione had installed above the door. If either of the twins had been Polyjuiced or otherwise disguised, it changed to an "Exit" sign.

Since the picture remained unchanged, Harry slid his hand away from his wand hilt. "I warn you, Amy just woke up from a nap. She'll be a grouch for a bit."

"I heard that," Ginny grumbled, but she didn't bother to deny it. She perked up at the sight of Stacy and Tracy. "What's this? An impromptu party?"

"We've invited Tad and Frank, and Melinda's just behind us," Tracy informed her, vaulting over the couch and landing beside her. "They're bringing more food."

"Oh, so you planned this," Harry had time to say before Melinda entered, bearing what looked to be an armful of chocolate snacks. "What about Bear?"

Stacy rolled her eyes. Tracy broke into the crisps. Neither, Harry noticed, looked at the other. "He's out on a date," Melinda answered and began fussing with all of the different snack items she'd brought. Harry was glad that Ron and Hermione had cleaned out all of the Tunnel devices, so that the suite looked normal, albeit a tad messy. "He may drop by later, if he's in the mood."

Tracy bit into a crisp and talked around it. "But in the meantime, we decided that we wanted some downtime with the rest of you," she filled Ginny and Harry in. "Too much publicity rubbish lately. I sent Chris off to a conference over in Georgia and begged the night off for the rest of us."

"We are forever in your debt," Harry muttered darkly.

"He's just trying to get our name out there," Tracy said, but her tone was apologetic. "Now, I don't know about the rest of you, but I've been wanting to see this one for a while." She named a title that Harry had never heard of, of course. "If just for the laughs."

By the time that Tad and Frank had arrived, and had made themselves completely at home, some of Stacy's ill humour had vanished. It was hard to be dour among a group like the Typhoon, especially once you had Tad dangling a fake spider over you and Frank stabbing wildly at it with a crisp in order to 'save' you. In the background, some Muggle movie with singing and dancing of wild proportions flashed, but the team paid it no mind. Harry was duly dispatched for appropriate drinks; Tracy and Frank made a show of taste-testing the gin party fizz he'd ordered from room service and declaring it "resoundingly average." It would do, they claimed, but Harry was no longer allowed to choose the beverages for them.

At some point in the evening, Ginny slipped out of the room and soon returned in a simple set of slacks and a Typhoon shirt. Harry kept an unobtrusive eye on her, but it turned out to be unnecessary. Nothing of the tension that had been plaguing her for two days showed on her face or in her movements. She volleyed mock-insults back at Tracy as soon as the twin shot them at her, commented on Melinda's blouse (apparently, it was new, though Harry couldn't tell), and even acted as hostess, relying upon the mini-bar to restock drinks and snacks. Harry's money purse would be much lighter after it, but he didn't particularly mind.

"I must say," Stacy remarked, twirling one of the pretzel rods Ginny had found in the hotel supplies, "for a new couple, you two sure do tolerate us intruding on your space quite often."

Ginny rolled her eyes when Harry snorted. "Oh, compared to some of our friends, it's as though we never see you," Harry remarked. "And you're smart enough to bribe your way in with crisps and chocolate."

The doorbell prevented Ginny from scolding him. Stacy, who had relaxed over the course of the evening, tensed. "I'll get that," Harry said, and crossed to the door. He peered through the peephole; Bear stood on the other side of the door, wearing a Muggle-styled tooled leather jacket despite the oppressive heat. Cautious, Harry pulled the door open, and Bear smiled tiredly at him. "I got word that this was where the team was congregating."

Harry scanned the hallway, but Bear was alone. "Come on in. I think the movie's almost over, but more importantly, I don't think anybody cares. Here, have a drink."

Since the portrait above the door remained unchanged, Harry moved to the mini-bar and poured Bear a firewhiskey. There was a grey tinge to the other man's skin that suggested he needed it. Indeed Bear took it with a "thanks" and swilled half of it. "Sorry."

"Lousy date?"

"If original thoughts were knuts, shaking her head wouldn't have even produced a jingle." Bear rolled his eyes and finished the rest of the whiskey, coughing a little. "That's all for me. Game tomorrow. Need to be sharp."

"Others are through there," Harry offered as he stored the firewhiskey decanter against the wall. "I need to place a call. I'll be back in a second."

As soon as Bear had sauntered past, Harry picked up the phone on the kitchen counter and hit three buttons. "Hullo?" Ron answered, his voice cracking with sleep.

"It's me," Harry said.

Ron's voice immediately cleared. "Hey, Harry. Has the party cleared out?" As if to answer his question, Tracy and the Beaters laughed raucously at something Bear had just said. "Ah," Ron said. "I see. How much longer?"

"Couldn't tell you. I don't know."

Sensing movement, Harry looked up, but it was only Ginny. She'd moved to the doorway between the living area and the tiny kitchenette. 'Ron?' she mouthed at him. He nodded.

Meanwhile, irritation crept into Ron's voice. "Well, see if you can't kick them out or something. You have a game tomorrow."

"So do they," Harry pointed out.

Ginny moved further into the kitchen, leaning against the counter and facing him, watching his face. He couldn't quite read her expression, but she appeared to be studying his. On the other end of the phone line, Ron's voice was a bit strained. "I'd like to review the plans, and I don't want everybody up too late."

Harry glanced toward the living area, gauged whether he could actually get the team out without causing any problems. Laughter answered him. "We can review them in the morning. Go ahead and turn in. Get some sleep. And make Hermione sleep, too. She needs sleep more than the rest of us."

With some reluctance, Ron agreed, and summarily hung up. Ginny waited until Harry had replaced the phone in its cradle before the devilish smile broke out. "That was quite underhanded of you," she observed, crossing her arms over her chest. She stepped closer to him; Harry decided that he was just comfortable where he was, and that the party in the other area could wait. "Playing the pregnant wife card like that. Hermione wouldn't put up with that if she knew you were doing that."

Harry snorted. "Ron wouldn't be foolish enough to admit it—and the trick works. I figure I'm safe."

"Is any man truly safe from the wrath of a pregnant woman?"

"Only if we have a running start and some of kind of peanut butter and—what is it, pickles?—to act as a shield," Harry confessed, and smiled when her arms came around his neck.

This was more or less how Frank found them a few minutes later when he wandered into the kitchen. "Well, I'll be buggered," he commented, and had them breaking apart. "Would you look at this, mates? They're a real couple. Snogging behind our backs like a couple of teens." He wagged a finger at them.

"What do you want?" Harry grumbled without releasing his hold on Ginny.

"An innocent glass of water." Frank eased around them and helped himself to the water at the tap. "Stacy and Bear are sniping at each other."

"I'll go play mediator." Ginny slipped away and was out the door before Harry could stop her. With nothing to do with his hands, he tucked them into his pockets and leaned back against the counter.

"Coward," Frank observed.

"What?"

"You think I don't see what you're doing? You're avoiding going in there and having to deal with Stacy and Bear." Frank smiled behind his water glass.

"So're you," Harry pointed out.

"Me, I'm having a glass of this delicious cold water." Frank proved it by downing the rest of it in one hefty swallow, and setting the glass beside the sink. "Besides, with Amy in there, they'll behave. The whole team's afraid of her."

"As they should be," Harry muttered, and went back in to join the party. "And they haven't even seen her when she's truly angry."

* * *

Chris Gingham leaned back against the nearest locker and surveyed his team with an unmistakably puzzled expression. He was positive that he had heard Tracy sneak into the hotel room in the ballpark of two a.m. She wasn't very quiet—on the ground—and he distinctly remembered waking and rolling over to see her enter. The time had been well after 2:15, and he knew she'd been with the rest of the team in Potter's hotel suite, having a good time. By all rights, the entire team should be heavy-eyed from a lack of sleep and uncommunicative.

Yet, they looked as fresh as spring daisies. He just couldn't figure it out.

That didn't mean there wasn't tension in the air, though, he noted as he looked around. Potter looked downright distracted, absorbed in staring at his Quidditch boots. Melinda, Tracy, and the Beaters seemed to be fine. Stacy was scowling hard into her locker. And Bear was…wait, where was Bear?

"Has anybody seen Bear?" Chris asked the group.

"He said he might be late. But he'll be here."

Chris checked the watch his grandfather had given him and wanted to sigh to himself. "Well, he's got five minutes before I send security after him."

"He'll be here," Potter assured, and turned back to his locker, already distracted once more. Chris wondered if it was a good idea to have a distracted Seeker, but decided not to say anything. Potter'd been Seeker for England for years. He knew what he was doing.

That was the problem with this team. They knew what they were doing. Trying to coach them was dismissed as ridiculous from every single one of them.

A deep knock shook the locker room door. Since he was the closest, Chris gestured for his team to remain seated and answered the door himself. A security badge was shoved into his face. "Are you Christopher Gingham?"

"Yes," Chris replied, looking around the badge to see the pointy-faced wizard holding it. "Who's asking?"

"Officer Webster, Head of Security Squadron D. My partner and I came upon your team member, Barry Winslow, exchanging blows with a civilian, identified as a Randolf Holmes. They are both under arrest, but stadium law requires that Mr. Winslow be allowed to play during his match. After the match, we will take him into custody once more, but until that is done, he is in your custody. If you would sign here?"

Webster produced a clipboard out of nowhere, thrusting it under Chris's nose. Baffled, Chris took the insta-quill offered and signed his name on the appropriate line. All was silent behind him, never a good sign.

Things only worsened as Bear was shoved into view. His tall, lanky Keeper, who'd been whole and in one piece only the day before, looked as though he had decided to block shots from all three Chasers…using only his face. His trousers were ripped, blood trickled from cuts on his face, arms, and neck. Yet he still gave Chris a "what are you going to do about it?" look, squinting through the eye that wasn't already swelling shut. Behind him, Webster closed the door, leaving Chris and the team alone.

"Which one of you has medical training?" Chris asked without removing his eyes from Bear's face.

There was silence for a minute. Even the room seemed to be holding its breath. "Stacy does," Tracy finally offered.

Behind Chris's back, Stacy shot her twin sister a betrayed look.

"Stacy," Chris said. "Heal him. So I can kick his sodding arse."

Bear sneered yet again. The instant he opened his mouth, the heavy and sweet scent of liquor flooded the air. "You wouldn't even be able to land a single punch, pansy-boy."

"Yeah?" Chris's hand shot out; he gripped Bear's left shoulder, the one he'd seen the other man favouring. And squeezed. Bear went down hard, already swearing by the time he hit the ground. Chris just sighed to himself and hauled the Keeper off of the floor, gesturing impatiently for Tad to get a chair. When that was delivered, he shoved Bear into it. "Tracy, there's some Sober-Up Solvent in my bag. Could you please fetch that and a glass of water? Stacy, he needs both eyes to play."

Even though his own annoyance with Bear had skyrocketed, he was surprised when Stacy none-too-gently grabbed Bear's chin and yanked it to one side. Bear swore and writhed about but Stacy didn't release her grip. "You sodding idiot," she snapped at him, and poked her wand at a scrape on his cheek. "You just couldn't leave him alone, could you? You men never think things _through_, do you? Oh, no, that's just too much work!"

"Er, Stacy?" Chris asked. "I said heal him, not scratch his face off."

"Sorry," Stacy snapped, but she didn't sound it. When Tracy handed her the Sober-Up Solvent, she poured it mercilessly down Bear's throat. He gargled a protest, but she just continued to jab at his face with her wand, healing the abrasions. Before long, Tracy pulled Chris off to the side.

"She's irked because Randolf Holmes is—was her boyfriend," she explained in a low voice. "The rest of the team doesn't know this, so keep it quiet, but he broke up with her last night. Said he'd found something better." She swore her opinion of that, and of Randolf Holmes. "This was after we left Harry and Amy's hotel room. Bear found her before I did. Bear was…well, he was understandably annoyed."

"Let me guess," Chris interrupted. "She asked him not to go after Holmes, but he did anyway?"

Tracy made a sour face. "Just wait until Stacy finds out she's become part of a cliché love story."

As much as he genuinely liked Stacy, and even Bear, Chris couldn't help feel the annoyance double in strength. He put a hand against his forehead and pushed, trying to stave off a headache before it could find its footing. "And you're telling me that they couldn't possibly save the cliché for _after _the game?"

* * *

Fans had been expecting that the battle between the Nottingham Typhoon and the Bismarck Flickertails to be brutal, an ongoing rage of nut-brown players against blue, red, and grey ones. Harry and Ginny had certainly counted on it when they were building their plans, Ron and Hermione relied upon it now as they attempted to carry those plans out.

So when Harry and the Flickertails Seeker went into a steep dive almost immediately after the Quidditch balls were released, every Tunnel member present felt a numbing sense of dread. When Harry emerged from the dive seconds ahead of his opponent, clutching the traitorous golden Snitch, the dread tripled.

The increasing number of Typhoon fans didn't notice the dismayed group. They went wild; this was a historical catch—made before the Quaffle could even _enter a single goal_! For the first time in the Open history, there was a game that was exactly 150-0, in favor of an unknown British team with a famous hero as its Seeker!

Euphoria was the last thing on the minds of the Tunnel members, though. Ron swore viciously through the spell-link they'd all charmed into their heads, a link that would allow them all to hear each other throughout the entire plan. "Did nobody tell him not to do that?" he raged.

Ginny, torn between pride for Harry and despair for herself, felt her hackles rise. "It wasn't like he had a choice, Ronald! The other Seeker would have caught it if he hadn't!"

"Relax, Ginny, I know. I'm just…well, it throws an interesting sticking hex into our well-laid plans." Ron sighed over the link. "Okay, stay in positions for a minute." From his vantage point in the opposing team's press box, he saw a crowd sweep poor Neville and Luna to the side, and amended, "If you can."

"There's always next game," Hermione said in Ginny's head. "We'll have to use our alternate set-up, but we can…"

Ginny tuned her out and slowly sat down. She'd risen to her feet in the same surge as everybody else egging on Harry's impressive dive. Now they were all hurrying out of the press box, perhaps hoping to glean an autograph or two out of the occasion. Out on the Pitch, the Typhoon players were taking a stunned victory lap, wide-eyed and chattering to each other. It wasn't hard to notice Bear trailing along behind them, his scowl evident even from this distance.

"Ginny? Ginny!" Hermione's voice interrupted her study of Bear. Ginny glanced up guiltily, even though Hermione couldn't see her. She was alone in the press box, aside from the Darrows and Fred, all disguised to be rich business owners. Well, Fred was a rich business owner on his own, but today he sold magical real estate instead of transportable swamps.

"Sorry, Hermione," Ginny muttered.

"Do you have visual of Tara and Euan? I have them on my brochure, but I want to be certain it is working properly. They should be in the doorway to the press box." Hermione sounded faint, as though she were walking farther away from Ginny.

Ginny twisted her head around to look at the entrance just as Euan gave Tara a hand inside. Immediately, the blonde American raised a reassuring smile at her former flatmate. "It's me," she said, and Ginny heard her both inside and outside of her head, a sign that this was not Dermot in disguise.

"Both of us," Euan confirmed, following Tara into the press box. "I take it from the riot that we missed the whole match."

"Your fault for being perpetually late," Ginny told Tara in a light voice, but she didn't feel in a very teasing mood. On the Pitch, the two teams filed back into the doors that led to their locker rooms. "There went all of our plans."

The trap for Dermot had been very simple, once upon a time. It had required the most acting from Ginny's part: for two days now, whenever she was in public, she made it a point to seem irritable and distracted. With the threat of Dermot hanging over the entire team now, it wasn't hard. Her irritation was supposed to hit its breaking point at the game, during which Tara was supposed to arrive late with Euan in tow. She and Tara were supposed to have a spat, they were both to stomp off in different directions. Euan was to follow Tara, Ginny was to go off "alone." With any luck, Dermot wouldn't recognise any of the disguises Ron had picked out for his team, strategically set up on the route Ginny would storm down.

With the game ending so quickly, though, their plans were moot. Ginny wanted to scream and kick something. Instead, she rested her head on Tara's shoulder and sighed. Tara wrapped an arm around her shoulders. They sat in silence like that for several minutes, listening to the rest of the team chatter in their heads. Euan said nothing as he stood awkwardly by them, adorably trying to guard them like a puppy might try to guard a master.

"George, report in," Ron barked in their heads.

George's voice was harried as he replied. "I'm down by the locker rooms. This place is a mob scene—they're all shouting for Harry and the rest of the team—hey, watch where you put that elbow! Yes, you! Hey, I would never say _that _about _your _Aunt Mildred, why don't you give _mine_ a break? Oh, did you want to take this outside—"

"George!"

"Right, sorry—Oh, here's the team, they're finally coming out of the locker room. They look…well, a bit puzzled, to tell the truth. It's going to be awhile before we get to Harry, mate. He's got a crowd around him wanting autographs.

"Hey, Ginny, where are you?" George continued. "Bloke looks like he accidentally killed somebody's pet Puffskein. He could use a bit of cheering up."

Ginny nodded wordlessly at Fred, who rose to his feet at the same time as she. Without saying a word to the Darrows, Tara, or Euan, they left the press box and headed down the staircase to the locker rooms. She didn't hear Ron or Hermione following them, but she assumed that they were indeed around her. Occasionally, one would offer instructions to get through the crowd more smoothly, though they would both remain out of sight.

Somehow, she made her way past the crush of the crowd, elbowing and shoving a bit in order to get through. Once Harry was in sight, Fred dropped back, keeping his hand on his wand. Ginny continued forward until she reached the ropes separating the team from the crowd. It was Tad that picked her up and deposited her next to Harry as though she weighed little more than a sack of flour, effectively snatching her away from the crowd.

"Did you see that catch, Amy?" Tracy crowed, grabbing Harry's wrist and flinging it into the air. His fans roared wildly in response. "Absolutely brilliant catch! Inspired!"

The strained smile on Harry's face lent an air of credibility to Ginny's own smile. She dodged around Frank, who was swinging his tiny wife around and shouting triumphant praise at the top of his lungs. Since everybody on the magical-link could what she said aloud, she smiled and wrapped her arms around him. "It _was _a brilliant catch."

"Didn't mean to catch it quite that quick," Harry muttered ruefully, turning red as a few of his fans catcalled at Ginny. "So it was really a rubbish catch."

"I consider any catch where you're not injured in the process brilliant," she informed him staunchly, straightening the front of his grey Quidditch robes. She heard Fred, George, and Ron snicker in her head, and rolled her eyes.

"I don't suppose you had any luck?"

"None, but don't worry. There's always next game." Ginny caught Chris's scowl in their direction and smirked. "Looks like your manager's demanding you sign autographs. You don't need me here. Meet me by the locker room later?"

"Ooh," Fred and George crooned at exactly the same time. George continued, "Why not ask him to meet you under the bleachers for a quick snog?"

Deciding that one of them had to be mature, Ginny chose not to rise to the bait. She did turn in confusion, though, at the commotion that erupted near the locker room door. "What on earth's happened to Bear?"

Fans all throughout the noisy hallway quieted as the tall Keeper was led away from the locker room by a security guard. The shaggy blond hair blocked most of his face from the crowd; he kept his head down, eyes securely fastened to the floor as he was thrust into the crowd by his security guard. His hands were lashed together behind his back with what looked to be several magical handcuffs. His shoulders were hunched in defence. The crowd backed up on itself to clear a pathway. A few of the younger members looked worried, but the older ones, who'd been around for the more violent times of Quidditch, just seemed amused.

As Bear was pulled from sight, Ginny chanced a glance at Stacy. Tracy had thrown an arm around her sister's shoulder in triumph before the scene; now, it remained there in support.

Gradually, the crowd's noises started up: murmuring that was certainly about Bear, renewed pleas for autographs, excited chatter. It gave way to cheering and screaming once again. Harry took the opportunity to lean down and explain, "I'll explain after Hermione takes the link down," in her ear.

She nodded in reply to that. "See you then." It took her a moment to find Fred in the crowd, for he was still disguised as an aristocratic southern gentleman. She gave Harry a quick kiss and followed after her older brother.

"C'mon, Fred, let's find someplace to wait this out."

"Figure there'll be any good tea in this place?" Fred asked, his tone the slightest bit wistful.

"I doubt it. But I'll spring for a cup of bad coffee."

They waited until the Polyjuice potion they'd all taken before the game wore off before they convened in the coffee shop with Ginny and Fred. Hermione arrived first, looking harried, followed closely by Euan and Tara. The Darrows had retired back to the hotel, George informed them when he arrived. He took one look at the dark green and brown décor, shrugged, and ordered the strongest coffee in the building. He was stirring a heap of sugar into that when Ron arrived.

"Right, then," he said as Hermione kindly deactivated the mental communication link so that they wouldn't hear double anymore. He studied the group assembled over two tables, most of them clutching coffees and trying not to look dejected. "Did anybody spot anything?"

"Nothing," they all reported, one by one.

"Brilliant catch, but Harry still caught it too bloody early," Fred groused, taking a long drink of the coffee. He was on his second cup, but the caffeine didn't appear to be having any affect. "And there's no chance we can use this set-up again. Just not worth it."

"We'll have to use the other one," Ginny commented. "Really, it's more sensible—"

"No," chimed in Fred, George, and Ron on the same breath. Ron continued, "We've already agreed not even to consider that plan. Too bloody dangerous." Hermione's scowl at her husband to watch his mouth was duly ignored. "Who are we still missing?"

As though he had been cued, Harry entered the coffee shop, freshly showered and changed. Ginny didn't understand why her heart thudded with relief at the sight of him. "Ron told me you were all meeting in here," he informed Ginny in a low voice. "It's actually me, by the way. Recipient of the most horrible Valentine courtesy of Fred and George. Never hiring a singing troll for any of my future parties, especially ones that compare my eyes to pickles." He rolled those eyes now. "So, what's been decided?"

"We'll have to talk strategy back at the hotel," Ron decided. "It's not safe here."

"We're just waiting for Neville and Luna," Hermione added. "They should be here any moment now. They were both working the circuit near the security desk."

"That was an inspired catch, Harry," Euan, still young enough to have a bit of hero-worship in him, commented. "Zinged it straight out from underneath the other Seeker. You should have seen the look on his face."

"I consider any catch where I don't swallow it a good one," Harry remarked tritely.

Like the others, Ginny looked up when Neville staggered into the coffee. And like the others, she was on her feet in an instant, wand out. Neville's robes had been pristine that morning. Now they were bloodied and torn, blood leaking from a severe cut on his left arm. He looked at all of them without seeing them.

"What happened to you?" Ginny demanded at the same time as everybody else.

"Dermot." Neville gripped the edge of a tabletop like a man in a storm. "He—he's taken Luna. I couldn't stop him. And now he's gone.

"And he's got Luna."

**A/N The Second: Yes, I know this is an evil cliffie. Why don't you tell me how much you hate it? Leave me a review. I'll try to write quickly and get us out of this quagmire.**


	16. Ruby in the Rough

**A/N: I feel like I owe the entire community a huge apology. I really wish I had a good excuse, other than, you know, real life. I don't. Except for real life. Last semester, I took eighteen hours and worked three jobs. Right now I'm only doing two jobs and an internship, so… we'll see.**

**Author's Warning: This chapter is a little more mature than the rest of the story. Some bad stuff is about to go down. Not as bad as I originally planned, thanks to Harry's pure tenacity, but… well, read at your own risk.**

**Disclaimer: The usual.**

**Chapter Sixteen – Ruby Rough**

"And he's got Luna."

The words were like a trigger; the second they hit the air, all present members of the team were instantly circled around Neville, their questions tumbling over one another and forming a solid barrier of noise until Ron, taking charge, shouted, "ENOUGH! Everybody, STEP BACK!"

Harry winced. Ron's mouth had been right by his ear.

"Oh, for heaven's sake!"

Hermione's exclamation broke through the din. Impatient, she pushed through the crowd, elbowing Ron and Fred out of the way. "Can't you see the man's Confounded? Give him room, and for Merlin's pity, shut it a minute!"

"We need to know where Luna is and if she's safe—" Ron began, but a quelling look from his wife stopped him in his tracks.

"And if you lot keep going the way you are, you're never going to find that out. Don't you know the first thing about Confounded people? You don't confuse them, or they'll forget everything!" Hermione was already waving figure eights in the air over Neville's head with her wand. Dazed, the man watched them, his eyes completely blank. With her free hand, Hermione shoved the man into the chair Euan had just vacated. "Will somebody see to that cut on his arm? He's getting blood all over the floor."

Ron just turned to look at Fred. "On it," the twin confirmed, and withdrew a tube from his robe.

"Neville," Harry said, taking charge since Ron and Hermione were preoccupied with the wound, "what's happened? Where's Luna? You said Dermot's got her."

"I—" Neville broke off, his eyes crossing. They were glassy, Harry saw suddenly, like he had been—

"Would you wait a second, Harry!" Hermione cursed again.

Harry bit down hard on his impatience.

"Looks like he got roughed up a bit, too. Hold still." Fred knelt to rub a thick green paste on Neville's arm.

Though he knew she was moving as fast as she could, Hermione's movements seemed too slow for Harry. Fear clenched in his belly into a hard twist, making his heart thunder while his pulse raced to keep up. He fisted his hands, wanting to move, to do something, to save Luna. If only, he thought ruefully in the part of his brain still capable of rational thought, he'd just hexed Dermot down that one day, so long ago, in Tony's.

Next to him, Ginny tensed, watching Fred dab something from a bright green tube onto Neville's cut. "If he hurts her..."

Harry said nothing. Words were cold comfort.

The instant Neville's eyes cleared, the other man sucked in a gasp. "Luna! He's got Luna!"

"Yes, you mentioned that," Ron told him, once again taking charge. He leaned down, forcing Neville to focus on him instead of the group of anxious wizards and witches that thronged around him in a random coffee shop in the middle of a Quidditch tournament. "What happened?"

Neville grimaced, all colour having long abandoned his face. "We were in the east corridor," he said, more to himself than anybody else. "The crowd was too wild over Harry's catch, so we went there to get out of the way. We'd planned to come straight here—we really had—"

"You were in the east corridor," Ron prompted, waving off Neville's bleating excuses.

Neville, however, was distracted by Fred's ministrations. "Oi, what's that?" he asked thickly, pointing to the tube of paste Fred was smearing on his arm.

"Prototype. Should have you fixed up in a sec, mate."

"East corridor," Ron prompted again, impatience leaking into his voice.

Neville's head swivelled to look at him. "It's a madhouse down there," he confirmed, hastily gulping the water shoved into his hand by someone or other. "Luna and I—we were waiting it out, trying to make it back here. I was checking my map to see if I could spot Dermot nearby and she was checking the dustbins—it's a long story, don't ask—when a security guard came around the corner with that team-mate of yours, Harry, the one who plays Keeper."

"Bear," Ginny and Harry both breathed. What did Bear have to do with this?

"But the guard, he looked funny. Like he had a pain or something. I didn't give it much thought, but Luna looked up just as I guess the Polyjuice Potion started to wear off. He'd Polyjuiced himself as a security guard, and he had that bloke, Bear, with him. By the time Luna got her wand out, he'd already Stunned her, but so quiet I didn't even hear him do it.

"I just heard a thump—it was her, hitting the floor." Neville took a deep breath, waved his injured arm. Green paste glowed like radioactive waste, throbbing menacingly. "I yanked my wand out, but he was ready for me. He clipped me good and he hit me with a couple of other things. I blanked out for a second, and when I came to, all three were gone."

"And you didn't see where he took them?" Euan piped up, speaking for the first time.

"I think." Neville's forehead creased. "I may have. I don't know. There's was a door, and I specifically remember something slamming—"

"Take us to it," Ron ordered.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Sewers," George muttered, staring at the door Neville indicated. "Why didn't we think of that?"

"We did." Harry wanted to punch something, but knew it would only lead to a broken hand. And Luna and Bear would still be at the mercy of a lunatic. So he settled for pacing in short, jerky strides. "They were too easy for him. Don't fit his M.O. We thought he liked more of a challenge. And some place where the bodies could be found more easily."

"Well, they fit his M.O. now." Ginny's face was grim.

They stood in the east corridor, abandoned now that all of the other games were in session. There wasn't a single sign of a struggle, but that didn't mean anything. Dermot was the type to clean up a crime scene, unless he truly wanted it found, as he did in his Witch Hunter guise. There was no point in asking what was going on beyond that plain grey door, inconspicuously labelled "Sewer Exit E-A17."

Ron scratched his forehead, sighed. "Fred, George, Harry, we're going in."

Immediately, protests sprang up, but Ron glared around to silence the group. "Euan," he said immediately, "you're too green for this sort of work. Hermione, I need you up here organizing things and ready with backup, Neville, you're dead on your feet. Tara, I need you here to organise things with the Americans if this goes terribly wrong."

"And what about me?" Ginny demanded. "I know how Dermot thinks, I'd be useful—"

"You're not going." Ron's countenance was stony. "It's you he wants most, and this is one step away from gift-wrapping you and handing you over. You're going to stay up here where you're safe—"

"Oh, no I'm not—"

Harry, correctly reading the redness of both siblings' ears, made a decision on the spot. "She's coming, Ron. She knows how he thinks, and I'll watch her back."

"Like you watched out for her in the Shrieking Shack?" Ron snapped.

Harry's blood, already simmering, began to boil. "That was not my fault—"

"Bugger it." Neville shot the argument dead in its tracks by shoving through them and yanking open the door. "You lot can argue all you want, but he's got Luna down there, and if anything happens to her, it's on me. So I'm going in. If you're coming, you're coming. If not…" He shrugged and turned to go in.

Ginny lunged forward and snagged his arm before he could go any farther. "That'll be set up with a trap. Don't."

Ron sighed. "Fine. Neville's going with us. Fred, George, get us past the trap?"

The twins glanced at each other, holding a quick and silent conversation with only their eyes. Finally, George nodded. Fred leaned forward, quietly closing the sewer door. George, meanwhile, drew a bright blue stick, no longer or wider than his forefinger, from his robes. "Concept chalk," he explained with a lipless grimace. "We're developing a line for the Ministry. Under the table, of course."

"Of course," Ginny echoed faintly, watching George kneel and draw a square on the ground.

Without a word, George passed the device off to his twin, and Fred sketched in something—a handle, Harry realized. Fred reached _into_ the square, closed his hand around the handle, and wrenched up the trapdoor. With the groan of concrete against concrete, it ground open. Ron popped his head through. "There's light down here."

"No magic beyond this point," Ginny ordered, looking at their tiny group. "He'll have sensors."

"It's a bit of a drop," Ron said, emerging from the hole.

"I don't know how long this chalk will work—it's pretty old," Fred admitted. "So let's hurry. Just loosen up and let yourself fall."

Arms taut on the sides, he lowered himself into the hole—and let go.

"Clear," they heard after a moment.

George followed his twin, dropping without a thought. Ron didn't bother to lower himself into the hole—he just stepped in and dropped. Neville went next; Harry and Ginny heard the "_oof_!" as he landed on the twins, then the brief swearing.

"Hurry!" George ordered. "The hole won't last much longer!"

"Together?" Ginny asked.

Harry eyed the hole, gauging the distance. "Together," he confirmed.

To compact space, Harry lifted his hands into the air. Ginny hugged his middle. "Three… two… one…"

And they leaped.

Immediately, the trapdoor groaned and compacted, plunging them into darkness as it closed. Harry had only time to grunt in pain as they dropped, their stomachs briefly and terrifying trapped in their throats.

Both landed on their feet, though Harry collapsed to his knees, his hand clutched in his midsection.

Immediately, Ginny was on her knees as well. "What? What is it?'

"Caught me," Harry grunted, and showed her his hand.

Long gashes raked down his fingers where the cement had literally ripped at his skin. Blood trickled down his wrist, glittering dark grey in the green fluorescent light. "Bloody hell, Harry—"

"Here." Fred nudged Ginny out of the way, his wand already out.

"No!" Ginny snatched the wand away. "No magic! Use that stuff you used on Neville."

"Fresh out," Fred apologized.

"It's okay." Harry grunted it, gently pulling his hand from Ginny's grip. "We need to go on and find Luna. I'll get it patched up after that. I've got a high tolerance for pain, I promise."

He did, Ginny remembered, thinking of all of the times at Hogwarts that Harry had dealt with excruciating pain without so much as a flinch.

"Wait. At least put some Muggle treatment on it." Neville moved to the front, pulling a bandanna from his pocket. His hands were deft in tying it about Harry's hand, and Ginny imagined that he had probably seen several similar accidents around some of his rarer plants. Either that, or he was imagining tying up a beloved plant himself. "Try and stop the blood from flowing too much."

"I'm okay," Harry confirmed once the bandage was tied. He slid the injured hand from view.

It was then that the smell hit Ginny. She _knew_, logically, in her head that it was impossible that a hobo who believed showers were somebody else's problem had crawled down here and decayed to a sweet, rotting stench. She knew it was impossible. But she could almost see the body lying nearby, its skull bones grinning spookily, so strong was the stench.

They were underground, that was for sure. It was a barren concrete battle zone, a tunnel that opened into a labyrinth of concrete and metal catwalks. From far away, she could hear the gurgle of an underground river, echoing on the walls. Greenish fluorescent light illuminated the entire place from baskets that were set about twenty meters apart from each other. The lighting washed them all strange colours; Ginny stared at her brothers' freckles, their hair an odd mossy green in the light. The blood dripping down Harry's hand was dyed black.

"Well, Gin?" Ron asked. "You're the one that knows Dermot best. Which way did he go?"

She looked around, studying the surrounding area. The door Neville had seen him use was a few meters to her right, so Dermot would have no choice but to come this way. He would have been dragging Bear, under the Imperius curse, and spell-lifting Luna, apparently unconscious, so he wouldn't have picked too tricky a route. But his first priority would be to bury himself. To claim this territory.

"He'll have headed down," she remarked, eyeing the nearest catwalks. "If he's not going to be public hiding his victims, then he'll want to lay the best trap, and doing that will mean getting them—and us—away from the stadium. That'll be his first priority."

"Down we go," Ron muttered. "Everybody keep an eye out, but don't use magic unless you absolutely have to."

They made for an odd group moving across the catwalks. By unspoken agreement, Ron led the way, his wand held high—just in case. Neville followed directly behind him, obviously eager to get to Luna. Ginny walked behind the twins, more than aware that they were intent on forming a human shield. And Harry brought up the rear, limping slightly (though Ginny had no idea why). He trailed so close that she could hear the hiss of his breath as he breathed against the pain.

All was silent, save for the odd tramp of footsteps on metal. They descended, speaking only to warn others of rough patches in the metal walkway. The deeper they travelled, the rarer the light baskets became. Ginny's eyes slowly accustomed to the dark. All colour fled her world as her night vision took over; she was left with nothing but blacks and greys.

"Wish I had one of those Muggle lights, those whatsits—"

"A torch," Harry supplied, his voice strained.

"Yeah," Fred agreed. "Wish I had one of those."

"What do you think?" his twin asked him. "Have something like a Muggle torch on the line for next fall?"

"Maybe more an actual torch?"

"That spits flame?"

"Real flames, right? Not that tripe we came up with for the whatsits last month."

"Ooh, right. Not that."

As the twins discussed their latest project ideas, the group trekked deeper. Though they walked quietly, there wasn't time for true stealth. Everybody merely kept their wand hands ready, their fists tight around those wands. It wasn't long before they came to a crossroads, anchored against a cement wall. "Which way, Gin?" Ron asked.

Ginny nudged her way to the front of the group. Years of chasing the Witch Hunter resurfaced. She'd never tracked a trail this fresh, but when it all boiled down to it, Dermot was still the Witch Hunter, and she was still his tracker. Her mind weighed angles, debated what she knew about Dermot, factored in M.O., the different paths, lights, shadows, preferences.

And then she spotted the single golden hair.

"It's a trap." The words were out before she even knew she'd spoken. "This way's a trap."

"Well, let's go this way, then," Neville suggested, pointing to the left.

"Can't. That's a trap, too." She poked the empty air with her wand, and her suspicions were rewarded when the air shimmered vaguely pink. "It tells us we're on the right path, but he's rigged it to take at least the first three people out." She had a brief flash, years old and long buried, of walking into her first Witch Hunter house and nearly being beheaded by a very nasty curse that Dermot had left for her—and himself, ironically enough, as he'd been her partner—to find. The thought bought a grimace. "Dermot's fond of booby traps."

She heard George mutter his opinion of Dermot under his breath, and couldn't help but agree.

"So what do we do?" Ron asked. "Can you disarm the trap?"

"Not without a spell. And if we use magic, he'll know we're onto him."

"Well," and Fred removed another stick of Concept Chalk from his pocket, "guess it's time for other measures. Doing okay, Harry?"

He grunted. "I'm fine, but let's hurry this time. I don't fancy losing my other hand."

Fred drew another trapdoor, handed the chalk to George. "Half of us go through this one, the rest of us through the other," he suggested. "That way nobody has to lose any limbs."

They made quick work of going through the floor, dropping onto a lower catwalk. Only Neville and Ginny fell over this time. Harry, who'd gone first, grabbed her before she could tumble off the edge of the catwalk and into the dark abyss that waited below. He didn't release her wrist even after he'd ascertained that she was okay. She didn't mind.

"Is there any way to make sure we're on Dermot's trail and that we didn't accidentally bypass it?" Ron asked Ginny in an undertone.

"Gut instinct, but that's about it. He'll have gone that way if he were on this track."

"All right."

Darkness was nearly absolute now that they were away from the main sewer tunnelling system, but nobody said a word about having a torch. Tensions soared; Ginny's muscles were taut, the hand gripping her wand soaked with sweat. Every step brought her closer to her personal nightmare. Her heartbeat pounded a tympani rhythm against her throat, echoing hollowly in her ears. Breathing steadily grew harder and harder.

"Doing okay?" Harry muttered, his voice low.

"I'm fine. How about you? How's your hand?"

"Trying not to think about it, thanks."

They came across two more traps, bypassing them with the Concept Chalk each time. Finally, they hit cement, the very rock bottom of the sewer. "He's somewhere on this level," Ginny announced needlessly. "Walk carefully. He might have had time to come back and lay more traps, so be on your guard."

Fred reached into the long sleeves of his costume and pulled out a pair of sunglasses. "Another project," he admitted.

"For the Ministry?" Harry wanted to know.

"Nope, for the Tunnel. Magic-sensing. I'm not sure they work properly, but George and I will scout, make sure the path is okay." They were Muggle sunglasses all right, but Fred had obviously been raiding the retro bin at the local shops, for they were horrendously large, with a neon pink frames that clashed spectacularly with Fred's hair even in the dark.

"I should help scout," Ginny offered. "I understand him better than any of you."

Ron paused, considering this. "Fred, how are the glasses working?"

"Pretty well. There's a trap about ten feet ahead. We can avoid it if we walk to the right."

"All right. Ginny, it's safer for you to stay with Neville, Harry, and me. Fred, George, you two go ahead, scout it out. If there is any trouble, send up sparks. Forget the no-magic rule. I'd like to catch him unawares, but I'd like us to live more."

Fred and George set off, slinking silently into the shadows despite the neon frames. Right before a trap, one would appear, warn the others, then disappear. They had it down to a science, lurking easily in the shadows. The group was able to move faster because of their efforts. And never were the twins wrong.

"Okay, trap about eight steps ahead," Fred informed them, sliding out of a shadow, "so squeeze up against the wall, but be careful not to actually touch it, cos George is pretty sure the wall's rigged, too."

"Wonderful," Harry muttered for the group.

"We're getting close," Ginny told the others as Fred slipped away again. "More traps. And they're closer together."

"Let's get through this one. I'll go first." Ron stepped up onto a shallow ledge running along the wall. He began to sidestep down the wall, wobbling only slightly. Neville struck out immediately after him.

"Well, this is fun," Ginny observed as she, too, began to sidestep. "I don't suppose—"

A shriek, high, female, terrified, tore the air in half. All four along the wall jumped; Ginny nearly tripped off the ledge. Only Harry's hand on her elbow kept her from falling straight into the trap.

Neville, meanwhile, tried to charge past Ron, who turned and blocked the other man simply by wrapping him in a hard hug. "The trap! You go through that thing, you're no help to any of us!"

"That's Luna! He's hurting her!" Neville struggled, but Ron might have been a brick wall for all he moved. "Let me past!"

Ahead of them, the scream died into a choked gasp. Ron tightened his grip. "It could be a trap, too," he warned in a low voice. Neville went limp and stepped back. "Fred and George are closer than we are. Maybe they've already found something."

"Hurry up, then," Neville urged, giving Ron a little shove. "If he's hurt Luna—"

"He needs her alive," Ginny lied quickly, but they were scurrying over the ledge, running as fast as their side-steps would allow them. "She's the bait."

"Your friend Bear could be the bait," Neville pointed out.

"We're in a crisis," Ginny wanted to tell him. "Now is not the time to be logical!"

Instead, she ran. Panic coated the back of her throat in its sickly greasy way. It helped her mind to play a slideshow of all of the memories she'd worked hard to suppress, all the Witch Hunter deaths she'd seen when she'd worked that case. They'd been tormenting her from the moment dark enclosed their group, but now they spurred her legs fast, faster. If Dermot had killed Luna—if he had killed Bear—she didn't know what she'd do with those deaths on her head…

Ahead of them, one of the stadium's massive walls descended, putting an end to the catwalk and forming a small, short tunnel. Ron charged at it, in the lead, with Neville on his heels.

It struck Ginny an instant too late. "Wait, guys! Trap!"

But they didn't hear her. Just as Ron reached it, the tunnel exploded into a furious retina-burning mass of white light. Heat flared briefly, agonizingly. The shockwave sent the group tumbling; Ginny went backwards—for one brief and terrifying eternity, she was airborne, her stomach bottomless and in her throat. She hit the concrete hard on her back and shoulders, skidding painfully. Near her, she heard the distinct _clunk_ of skull against concrete, but her own skull hurt too much to locate the sound.

She groaned, opened her eyes. Saw nothing but smoke.

"_Stupefy_!"

A bolt of red nearly blinded her. It shot past her head, nearly singeing her with its heat in its nearness. Instantly, every tendon, every synapse in her body froze. Her heart pounded even harder; her chest rose and fell as it struggled for the air that suddenly seemed to be completely gone from the room.

She recognized that voice.

Before she had time to do the first thing that came to her mind—scream—an arm locked around her upper chest and shoulders. And she was being dragged over concrete.

"Shh," a voice said in her ear. She felt hot breath on her neck, and before she could consider screaming again, some coherent part of her brain informed her that the arm smelled like Harry's. "It's just me."

"Harry." She scrambled up beside him. She groped in the dark, latched onto his wrist. "Harry, he's here."

"Shh," he said again, under his breath. "Yeah. I heard him. I can't tell where he is, though."

"_Stupefy_!" This time the bolt of red was nowhere near them; Ginny stared, blinking away the afterimage the red had streaked across her vision. Who on earth was Dermot trying to hit? It struck her belatedly that he had no idea where they were; he was just stabbing in the dark, hoping he Stunned somebody.

She tightened her grip on Harry's wrist. "Ron? Neville?"

"Don't know. The blast caught Ron pretty bad. I can't see Neville at all, so I don't think Dermot can see us. C'mon."

But that heart-stopping fear had melted into anger. How DARE somebody attack Ron! He might have been her most annoying brother, but he was still her brother! If somebody was going to attack him, it had better well be a Weasley! Before she was quite sure what she was doing, Ginny rose. "Bugger this," she snarled, and snapped her wand at the fog. Instantly, it cleared—

—Revealing Dermot at the mouth of the tunnel, his wand trained on Ginny's head.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

For a moment, none of them moved.

"Well," Dermot drawled, his thick American accent playing a bluegrass twang on Harry's nerves, "you managed to live. I'm amazed. I set quite a few traps for you, but I guess your head is as hard as they say it is, Harry Potter."

"I reckon it is." Because she was still gripping his wrist, Harry felt Ginny's pulse accelerate to jack-rabbit in fear. Conversely, he felt absolute calm. Weeks of worrying and planning had come down to a standoff. If Dermot hadn't had a wand pointed at Ginny's head, Harry would have found the entire thing amusing. It reminded him, absurdly, of the old American westerns that he would catch on the telly late at night as a child after the Dursleys had gone to bed. He cleared his throat. "Put down the wand, and we won't hurt you."

"Oh, that's rich," Dermot snorted.

He didn't look good, Harry noted. Sweat coated him, slicking a reddened face up to a high shine. There was a gash of blood across one cheek: either Bear or Luna had fought back. It filled Harry with a sense of warmth… until he considered that Dermot's repayment for such an act might have been death. That only made Harry tighten his grip on his wand.

"Drop the wand, Potter," Dermot continued, taking a step forward. His wand stayed aimed at Ginny's head. He was smart; Harry had to give him that. Had Dermot decided to target Harry, the Seeker would have already taken him down. But keeping his wand on Ginny meant that Harry didn't dare so much as move.

"And let you kill us all? I don't think so."

"I don't want to kill you all. Haven't you even _read_ the file on me? I don't like extraneous deaths. Why do you think I shot Harrows in the _leg_? Murder's a bloody and messy affair. I prefer my affairs civilised—why do you think I preferred strangling my victims? Less mess."

Rage boiled beneath the calmness. He ignored the meat of Dermot's message to focus on the bones. "You meant to hit Tracy?"

"Potter, not a thing has happened that I haven't planned for."

But he was wrong—or better, he was bluffing. Harry could see it in the way Dermot's eyes shifted away from his; even as he spoke with confidence, a quaver beneath his words bespoke panic. Something had occurred that Dermot hadn't expected, and Harry suspected the twins were at fault. He silently cheered the absent Fred and George even as he kept a steel hold on his thoughts. They couldn't be dead. The Weasleys had survived too much already; Dermot couldn't be the end of them.

Thinking that made Harry take a step forward. "Give up," he urged again. "This has gone on too long. Let's just end this before anybody else gets—"

And if Ron hadn't chosen that moment to moan, things might have turned out okay.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Somebody had begun to tremble. Since she kept her grip on Harry's wrist, Ginny wasn't sure which of them it was, but she had a pretty good feeling it was her. Still, her wand didn't falter. It may have shaken a bit, but it remained true, pointed at Dermot. Just as his was pointed at her.

Somewhere in the back of her brain, she heard and absorbed the conversation. If the situation were any less fatal, and if three of her brothers weren't lying on the floor, possibly dead or missing, she might have found it funny. Her ex, the one she'd lived with for months, and her current flame. Harry had picked up a drawl somewhere; if the situation weren't so dire, she might have found it sexy. But as it was, she focused all her attention, all her hatred on Dermot. It was either that, or think about the three brothers that might be dead.

"Let's just end this," Harry urged.

Something dropped in the vicinity of Ginny's stomach. She stared hard at Dermot, her hand tightening its already vise-like grip on Harry's wrist…

Harry didn't notice. "Before anybody else gets—"

Somewhere in the darkness, she heard a long, loud, and unmistakeably Ron-like groan. It couldn't have been timed better had he tried. Ginny immediately swung her head about to search for the source and because of that, she didn't see the shot coming.

But Harry did. Ginny heard a loud _CRACK!_ and "_Stupefy_!" Then she was being shoved backward, falling back onto the concrete. For one heart-soaring moment, she was once again airborne. And once again, she landed hard on her back and shoulders.

This was really getting old.

She heard another thud, closer to her. A thud that sounded suspiciously like a body hitting the concrete… "Harry?" Ginny asked, panic slithering down her middle. She immediately tried to roll over, but cried out in pain. Her entire left side flamed up in agony so great that her vision actually stuttered like a bad Muggle television screen. She grit her teeth and moved her wand to where she could do a numbing spell—

Only her hand was empty.

She'd dropped her wand.

Panic didn't merely slither now; it raged and burned, plunging the room into icy depths of fear. Ginny tried to scramble, tried to sweep her arm around and see if her wand was nearby, but her side hurt so bad—and Harry wasn't answering—and there was a wand in her face.

"Hey, Gin," Dermot purred, standing above her. "Shame about your boyfriend, isn't it?"

If Dermot's curse had struck true, Harry had merely been Stunned. Not dead. "What about him?" Ginny asked, hoping her voice didn't quiver as much as she felt it did. "He's just Stunned. And he could probably use the sleep." Deliberately, knowing she was pulling on a sleeping tiger's tail, she forced her face to smirk. Sweat dewed on her upper lip. "It's not like I give him much of an opportunity for it. Now that we're sharing the same bed and all."

Sure enough, the wand pointed at her face shook. She looked beyond it at Dermot's face and saw the rage firing up in those eyes she'd once trusted.

"Get up!" The wand shook again, this time to emphasize the order. "Took out your little party by myself, and that's all fine for now, but I've got something special saved for you."

Well, that couldn't be good. Ginny stared at the wand-tip, then slowly, creakily began to move to her feet. When she moved her left shoulder, she let out a short scream.

The wand-tip jolted. "Quit faking it. You've got the highest pain tolerance of any witch I've met." Dermot's voice was pure scorn. He ignored the fact that Ginny was panting shallowly in order to breathe, and jerked the wand imperiously. "On your feet. Let's go. Your brother's not going to stay unconscious all day and if he comes round while we're out here, I'll just kill him. You don't want that on your head, do you?"

Her teeth gritted, Ginny suggested an activity to him that she wasn't quite sure was physically possible. Dermot just hooted once, laughing mirthlessly in his own way, and reached around the wand. He grabbed hold of her wrist—Ginny's very flesh recoiled, though she could do nothing more than hiss—and yanked her to her feet.

She screamed again, tried to fall to her knees. Dermot's hand prevented that.

Somewhere in the darkness, she heard a moan. Though her entire side alit with fire, her head snapped up. "Fred?"

"Move!" Dermot ordered, shoving so that she had no choice but to walk. She stumbled over something soft that gave way beneath her feet, nearly hit the floor again. And wanted to retch when she realized that she'd just walked over Harry's prone form. Dermot shoved her again. "I said, move!"

She would never remember how she made it across the room, over Harry, beyond Neville, and finally past Ron's prostrate and bleeding body. Each time, she faltered, but Dermot was there, catching her, pushing her forward. No matter how hard she struggled or swore, it wasn't enough. With every footfall, the pain in her side focused, intensified until her jaw ached from being clamped shut. She whimpered; Dermot ignored her, continuing to frog-march her down a dark corridor, along a catwalk, up—past the twins, who were equally as unconscious or dead as Ron, Neville, and Harry. Footfalls blurred in her mind. There was only an agony, both hot and intolerable, and the stinging salt of her own sweat in her eyes. Dermot was silent as he continued to shove her along. He could have made it easier, she knew, by knocking her out and levitating her, but that irritatingly Muggle mindset of his would see the long march as a challenge and a rite.

Though the very sight of him sickened her below the pain, she couldn't help but study him. He didn't look…healthy. Something during the previous months had hollowed him of the youthful looks he'd had when they'd dated. His eyes were sunken, his skin was clammy and grey. His hair sat untidily, and he'd sweated through his "US ARMY" T-shirt.

Somewhere along the line, Dermot Raine had _aged_.

It almost wiped away her fear. Or it would have, had Ginny's vision not been blurry from the pain. She staggered forward another step, but her knee simply gave out. She went down hard, banging that same knee painfully against the concrete.

"You've gotten weaker," Dermot observed scornfully.

Ginny closed her eyes. Her fists curled against the concrete. Every breath came as a short gasp.

"Move it—it's not that far."

"Luna?" Ginny panted, staring hard at the concrete floor. If he was going to kill her, she decided, she didn't very well have to watch—even though she doubted he was going to kill her right here. He'd preferred to strangle his victims in their sleep. For some reason, she felt strangely calm about that—but only that. Her frenzied mind was torn between anguished thoughts of Harry and pure anguish itself. "Bear?"

"What use do I have for either of them? Get up." These words were delivered with a swift kick to the ribs that made Ginny cry out again. She collapsed sideways, but Dermot was there again, yanking her to her feet, pulling her along.

Finally, an eternity later, he shoved her away from him. She stumbled. Thankfully, he'd pushed her at a wall; she leaned against it, her breath hissing out between her teeth. Through the haze, she discovered they were in some sort of chamber, similar to the one Ron and Harry and Neville were Stunned in, several corridors back. This one, however, had not been abandoned to the rats and the spiders.

Somebody had made this a home.

Shock overloaded her brain as she gaped at a four-poster bed, similar to the one she'd slept in at Hogwarts. It sat, almost apologetically as though it were aware that it looked absurd, in the middle of a concrete warren. Above the bed, a nature landscape of some place in Alabama hung in midair, as though against a wall. On either side of the bed was a bedside table. She knew without having to look that the table closest to her would have a photograph with nine freckled, grinning faces waving at the bed's occupant. Just like she knew that the opposite bedside table would have three Muggle magazines—_Field & Stream, The Sniper Handbook, _and _GQ_.

Dermot had read those magazines faithfully. The sight of them still brought bile to Ginny's throat. She choked it down as she studied the bureau, something they'd picked up at a yard sale in Alabama, the knickknacks. It was an absolutely perfect replica of the place where she'd nearly been killed. Though she wasn't cold, she started to shudder.

"I see you've changed your obsessions," she observed, her voice cracking. "You're no longer obsessed with tidy witches—it's just me now, isn't it? That's why you waited so long, played all those games."

Dermot's head snapped around so quickly that she knew her arrow had hit dead-centre. "I don't have _obsessions_!" he snarled.

Ginny merely studied him as levelly as she could, ignoring the fire-ache in her side. In language Ron would be proud of, she told him exactly what she thought of that statement.

She saw the backhand coming, but not in time to duck.

White flashed hot right behind her eyelids, exploding all the way from her jaw to her temple. It splintered into a thousand tiny needles that tore jaggedly into her face. Ginny grunted, her head flying back at the impact.

Carefully, she leaned forward. Her entire face throbbed in time to her heartbeat. Her eyes never left his as she lowered her head, spat out blood. "That's funny. You never seemed to prefer violence before."

"SHUT! UP!"

"So what's the matter, Dermot?" Ginny asked with confidence she didn't feel. Somewhere beneath the fake calm, panic scratched its nails down her body, urging her to run—to flee—to do _something_! To get away from this place that replaced her skin with goose flesh.

But she had to find out if Luna and Bear were still alive. Without her, they would be dead. So she tossed her head back, locked gazes with her worst fear. "Your normal M.O. wouldn't work for you after I got away? Find out you were impotent because some…bloody…hen outsmarted you?"

This time, she saw the backhand coming, and threw herself to the side just in time. Dermot, however, was still faster than her. Before Ginny had fully regained her footing, he'd grabbed the front of her robes and dragged her up until they were nose to nose. She could feel the rage trembling through him, could see every vein in his bloodshot eyes.

"_I. Am. Not. IMPOTENT!_"

He smelled rank. Ginny realized what had been bothering her for the entire time: the Dermot of her past had perfect grooming. This Dermot, however, smelled like a shower was nothing but a very, very faint memory. And he smelled of…whiskey?

Somehow, that gave Ginny the courage to look him straight in the eye and say, "Oh, yeah? Prove it."

Right before she swung her leg back and drove her aching knee as hard as she could into his groin.

Dermot shouted, but didn't let go until Ginny slammed the heel of her shoe flat onto the top of his combat boot, grinding in. Ignoring the pain that wrenched through her, she fell sideways—straight on top of Dermot's wand. Later on, she might be ashamed for it, but the bloody prick had hit her. So she bit his wrist as hard as she could. When he screamed, she yanked the wand out of his hand, stuck it in his face, and shouted the first hex that came to mind.

Dermot immediately dropped to the ground, clutching his head and screaming. Bat-shaped contusions sprang out of his forehead, stretching the skin into horrifying and disfiguring mask over his features. Ginny scrambled away from him, Dermot's wand held at ready, but Dermot just continued to lay there, crying out every time a Bat Bogey tried to erupt from his skin.

She wanted to run back the way she came, to find Harry and the others, but a gut instinct told her that Dermot had stashed Bear and Luna somewhere close. Her arm shook as she raised the wand again, pointed it at Dermot.

Immediately, he went still. Even the fake bats beneath his skin died to pathetic twitches. Ginny breathed a sigh of relief and pointed the wand down at her side. The Numbing spell brought instant coolness, and she allowed herself one deep breath.

A movement out of the corner of her eye made her glance over, but it was only a shadow. When she looked back at Dermot, she found herself staring into the business end of a Muggle gun.

Unlike most witches, Ginny knew exactly how dangerous guns were. Dermot was responsible for that; he'd even taken her to a place he'd called a shooting gallery on one of their dates, so that Ginny could fire one of his Berettas. She hadn't liked it; the recoil had kicked all the way back through her arms, making her a weak and ineffectual shot.

But Dermot, she knew, could hit a Muggle coin at two hundred yards. As he was only a few feet away now, she decided that it might be wise not to move.

"Put it down," she said slowly. "You don't want to shoot me. You've never wanted to shoot me."

He rose. His chest heaved as though he'd just sprinted a marathon, but his gun arm was steady. "I am _not_," he panted, "impotent."

"Oh yeah?" asked a new voice from the shadows to their left. For the first time since entering the chamber, Ginny felt an unchecked trill of hope. _Harry_! "That's why you need dying women to get your rocks off?"

Dermot let out an unearthly snarl and whirled, already firing. Though Ginny wanted to clap her hands to her ears, instead she raised her wand, pointed it at Dermot. He had only time to glance over his shoulder and start swinging the gun her way before she shouted, "_STUPEFY!_"

He went down like a sack of potatoes. The gun skittered toward Ginny; with vicious rage, she kicked it as hard as she could.

"Ginny!"

Harry shot from the shadows at her right—hadn't he been on the left? Ginny thought it hazily. In an instant, his arms were braced around her, as though he were never going to let her go. She didn't care; she clung back. Her mind was hazy with disbelief. Was it really _over_? Had she finally bested the man that had sent her into hiding for nearly two and a half years? Had she finally beaten the Witch Hunter?

"Harry—how? How'd you—?" He'd been Stunned, she remembered.

But Harry just pulled back to grin at her. "Your ex has the lousiest aim with a wand I've ever seen," he told her, and kissed her soundly. "He just clipped me. I was only out a couple of minutes. I came in just as you got him with that Bat Bogey. Did he hurt you? Are you okay? What happened to your face?"

Ginny told him.

"Son of a—" Harry dropped her arms, strode over to Dermot, and kicked him viciously in the head. Several times.

"Harry James Potter!" The shocked voice emerged from the shadows instants before Hermione Granger herself did. "Back away from him at once!"

Harry looked very much like a chastised schoolboy as he stepped away. But his voice held none of a schoolboy's innocence. It was almost an octave lower than normal, and furious, and for some reason, it made Ginny want to shiver. "Did you _see_ what he did to her?"

"No, I didn't get here in time for that." Hermione strode forward, businesslike. "Are you two all right? Where's Ron?"

"Back that way. He got hit pretty badly, but he'll be okay. He and Neville are back working on the twins." Harry eyed Dermot's prone and bleeding form, looking torn between obeying Hermione's orders and kicking him again.

But Ginny stared at Hermione. Dimly, she realized that her side was beginning to hurt again, so she leaned against the wall for support. "What are you doing down here? How did you get here? It took us ages to get past all of the traps."

Hermione opened her mouth to answer, but before any sound could emerge, all three heard a triumphant yell. "Found 'em, Granger!"

And Melinda Warren, one of the three Typhoon Chasers, strode into the corridor, looking triumphant. "Team's all secure," she told Hermione. "I've given them our coordinates, so they should be here any second—"

Both Ginny and Harry stared at her, mouths agape.

A soft _pop!_ to Ginny's left made her crane her neck over. A wizard in official Ministry robes landed there, blinking hastily into the dark. Another _pop!_ followed to her right; another wizard, then a witch, then two more wizards all Apparated into the room. Ginny could do nothing but stare.

"Like I said," Melinda repeated. "Team's all secure."

Harry stared dazedly at the legions of official wizards that had joined them in Dermot's sick fantasy chamber. He watched as two began to bind Dermot's wrists with the magic-leaching cuffs that would stop him from getting away. "I think I speak for everyone," he said, just as Ron, Neville, and the twins limped into the room, looking a little worse for wear, "when I say: what the HELL is going on?"

**A/N II: Well, that was the long chapter from hell that took forever for me to put into words. But there you have it. I personally kind of hate it, but you're welcome to leave me a review telling me what you thought about it.**

**The chapter where I explain everything, and some things you might not have realized, to be continued…**


	17. The Garnet Snitch

**A/N: So... neat book we had out in July, wasn't it? I certainly liked it and was pleased that it didn't throw off my story... too much. That being said, I don't plan on going back to change this story to fit into canon, so it'll continue to remain AU. That means that all characters who were alive in this story previously are still breathing, Ginny and Harry didn't date at Hogwarts, so on and so forth. **

**I want to once again apologise because this chapter is once again quite later than I thought it would be, though I forced myself to write a scene that I thought many readers would thoroughly enjoy reading. Also, any fans of a certain book series about a bunch of American kid-minders... keep your eyes peeled. In the words of Captain Jack: "I couldn't resist, mate." (And once it got started, it took on a life of its own)**

**And so, without further ado (disclaimer aside), I bring you the final chapter, save the Epilogue, of Garnet Snitch.**

**Chapter Seventeen: The Garnet Snitch**

Harry paced the inside of his hotel suite, his trainers nearly tearing furrows in the inoffensive carpet as his eyes roamed restlessly over the inoffensive paintings and the inoffensive décor. His hand flexed over the handle of his wand, twanging a bit as the spells repairing the broken flesh still continued to mend tendon and bone. The Ministry healer that had separated him from the other injured down in the sewers had taken one look at his hand and tutted. It had taken nearly ten minutes to spell the hand back to normal; apparently the healer had never seen a hand nearly eaten by concrete.

"Fingers nearly clean off," he'd muttered. "Dangling by—"

"I _know_," Harry had interrupted, grimacing at the wand pokes that flamed through his whole arm like fire. "Can you fix it or not?"

The healer's eyes didn't meet his; the man studied the hand, entirely bemused. "I've no doubt of it, Mr. Potter. But perhaps I might take some photos? Show the boys at the office? They won't believe me if I tell them I've seen a hand that had been _eaten _by concre—"

"Just heal it!"

"All right, all right. Patience, Mr. Potter. I'll have this fixed in two shakes."

And now he was left here, away from all of the others who'd Apparated back to various locations. Hermione's terse orders had sent him back to the hotel suite alone. The injustice made his blood boil even as curiosity dogged his heels. Where had the all the Ministry wizards come from? What on earth had Melinda Warren been doing there? Where was everyone now? Why hadn't they come back and told him something yet? Had they forgotten him?

And where the bloody hell was Ginny?

As if answering his very thoughts, the door adjoining his suite to Ron and Hermione's opened. Ron, his face so pale beneath the stark-white bandage that his freckles stood out like signs, entered. "How's the hand, mate?"

"What's going on?" The question exploded from him. "Where is everyone?"

"Ministry wizards have gone back to England, I reckon." Ron rubbed a hand over his hair, unconsciously making it imitate Harry's. "Hermione and Melinda are meeting with some Department of Ministries bloke. I imagine the twins and Neville are still in Neville's room with the healers."

"Ginny?"

"Dunno." Harry snarled, but Ron just shrugged. "She went off to find Tara, I think. I'd give her a bit of time. It's not like she's in danger now that they've handed Dermot over to the yanks."

Though he wanted to chase after Ginny, to ensure for himself that she was truly okay, Harry just nodded. She wasn't in danger any longer. He'd find her later.

"Any idea what's going on?" he asked, nodding toward the door where he was sure Hermione and Melinda were meeting with the Department of Mysteries wizard.

"Well, we've just managed to get the story out of Bear and Luna—"

"No, no. That's not important right now." Though it was, vitally so. Knowing that Bear and Luna had been found, safe and unconscious, lifted a huge load off of his chest. Those were two more deaths Ginny didn't need on her head. "Who were those wizards? How did they know to Apparate to right where we were?"

Ron crossed to the mini-bar and pulled out the clunky, inoffensive tumblers the hotel room provided. "Wish they had a good firewhiskey. The Muggle stuff'll have to do."

Harry watched as his best friend began to fix them both drinks. Stalling, he saw. Ron had something to tell him, something bad if it required the use of alcohol to impart. Everybody and his pet Puffskein knew that a house-elf could drink Harry Potter under the table.

"Don't toss that back," Ron muttered absently, handing Harry a drink. "You're going to want to stay sober for this part. Trust me."

By silent agreement, they sat down at the hotel room's tiny dining table. Neither drank, though both played with the ugly tumblers. Harry stared at Ron, who seemed unwilling to meet his eye. Finally, the redhead cleared his throat. "Harry, who do you think started the Tunnel?"

Of all of the things Harry expected to come out of his friend's mouth, this had never made the list. Harry stared at him, baffled. "You did, didn't you? Hermione, too, I expect, and the twins helped."

"Harry, we were barely nineteen years old then."

What on earth? "So?"

"So you never wondered how a couple of nineteen-year-olds started an international mercenary ring—and kept it going?"

Put that way, it did sound a bit impossible—and ridiculous. Harry frowned as he thought back. He'd played for the Chudley Cannons when he was nineteen, and had even nearly helped them win a game or two, if memory served correctly. But the Cannons Curse had lived on, even when Harry had been the first to the Snitch every single time. Ron had always been working late, Hermione later. That was the year Ron and Harry had finally worked up the nerve to move out of the Burrow and into the Hutch. The same year that Hermione had forced firewhiskey on him and began to help him in a way that he still didn't understand years later.

He scratched his head. "Well," he said, stabbing in the dark with his words, "you had Hermione, Ron, and she's the most brilliant witch to ever come out of Hogwarts. Then, er, there's you—you got an almost unheard-of position in the M.L.E.S. right off the bat. I just figured you had the, you know, aptitude or whatnot for it."

"I got that job because I survived the final battle. You and Hermione were offered the same position." Ron took a long drink. The old resentments had long faded, but sometimes they came back to sting him. Now wasn't one of those times. For the first time, he looked up and steadily at Harry. "Hermione and I didn't start the Tunnel."

"What?"

"It's been around for years. England's branch was, I don't know, defunct or something. Hermione read up about it at work the same day M.L.E.S. offered me a chance to start it up again—by their rules. We discussed it, agreed to get a branch going with Dean Thomas's help. We figured with you and my brothers, we had something like the Tunnel started anyway. A little organisation couldn't hurt, we reckoned. So we started it up, started taking on cases that were...just a hair outside the law, I guess." Ron shrugged. "Wasn't too different than some of the stuff we used to do at Hogwarts."

"I'm still amazed more professors didn't try to kill us," Harry joked weakly, wondering where on earth this conversation was going.

"You and the entire world. Anyway, we started it up, and you and the twins were helping a little by that point, but the M.L.E.S. started placing some restrictions that were just a bit – tight. They got a little too interested in some of our practices. So Hermione and I went rogue.

"We needed money to do that. So we told you we'd started something on our own, knowing you wouldn't back anything started by the Ministry. We branched out into the real Tunnel, became the real deal. It got to be so much that Dean transferred abroad, and Ginny headed to Prague."

Harry remembered it now, how stressful those first months had been. He frowned deeply, mentally cataloguing his feelings. Surprise, a little anger that he'd been lied to—anger that he'd well get over, as it wasn't a terribly huge thing—and bafflement. "So you took credit for an organisation that already exists. Big deal. What's that got to do with Dermot and what happened today?"

"Oi, have some patience, will you? I'm getting there."

"Well, get there _quickly_."

Ron wrinkled his nose. "Drink your whiskey."

Harry glared as he took a sip.

"The Ministry found out." Ron stared hard at his glass now, breaking eye contact with Harry. "We kept it hushed, I promise you we did, but somehow they found out about the Glass Table."

Harry frowned, thinking of the table that had solved so many of the Tunnel's problems over the years. "So?"

"It's extremely illegal to have that sort of mapping device. Too late, I found out that they've got some kind of tracking device for items like that."

Once again, Harry frowned, trying his hardest to remember the Ministry regulations Hermione had listed the first time she'd showed him the Glass Table. She'd mentioned a loophole of some sort, something to do with, absurdly enough, the Marauder's Map.

"But it doesn't show actual humans and their activities," Harry said, puzzled. "It only shows the infrastructures and things like that. Like the Marauder's Map only showed names."

Ron squinted at Harry, took a sip of whiskey. "Figured you'd remember as it had to do with just squeaking by rules and regulations," he remarked off-handedly, though Harry detected a note of pride in his voice. "Yeah, anyway, and the Glass Table was in construction at the time, Hermione and the twins were still working on it. That's one of the reasons we're not in Langoliyer right now."

Harry looked blank for a second, remembered that Langoliyer had been started up by the Aurors for those with minor infractions. They'd agreed the Dementors were no longer safe guardians of prisoners.

"So... the Ministry found out," Harry said. "Big deal." He'd been flaunting Ministry regulations for years. Hadn't they called him an idiot in his fifth year, after all?

Ron choked back a laugh. "Should've known you'd take it like this. I told Hermione — "

"So why's the Ministry working with the Tunnel now, if you went rogue?" Harry interrupted, wanting to get to the meat of the matter.

"The Glass Table." Ron shrugged. "It all comes back to that. They were holding Hermione and me on pretty heavy charges, even with the loophole. Thankfully, one of Hermione's bosses called her into his office one day and said that the Department of Mysteries was willing to cut us a deal — if we took on some projects on the side."

"Isn't that why you originally started the Tunnel, though? The, er, rogue version of it?"

"That's what we thought, too." Ron's eyes had a misty, faraway look; Harry wasn't entirely sure he was fully focused on the room around them. "We went round and round about that, but it turned out that the Unspeakables had a much better deal for us. They didn't try to run us the way the M.L.E.S. was going on about doing."

"What sort of projects?" Harry asked, his gaze narrowed. That explained, at least, how easy it had been for Ron to tap several Aurors to work with their interviews. If the Tunnel worked with the Department of Mysteries, they were unofficially part of the Ministry. No wonder such lax rules about interrogations stood up against the Wizengamot.

"You know I can't tell you that."

"Projects like the Fizzing Whizzbee Scandal?"

"Seriously, mate, have you even heard the term cloak-and-wand?"

Harry, who'd never heard of any such thing, though he might have stumbled upon a Muggle equivalent in the past, just frowned. "No."

"Well, the gist is, I can't tell you. I have, however, been authorised to tell you that Melinda Warren is an Unspeakable."

Harry, who'd made the unfortunate choice to take a drink, promptly coughed it all over the table. "Mel—Melinda Warren works for the Department of Mysteries?"

"She's a liaison to the Tunnel." Ron ignored the mess Harry had made of the table. "They only use her for special projects in the Quidditch world — she's dead useful for that sort of thing. I think."

"And her killer barrel roll," Harry put in.

Ron shrugged. "She's been working against Teddy Gingham for years now. She's near as brilliant as Hermione, but she doesn't _talk_, so you don't know it — "

Harry, who felt his head might explode with all of the things that had apparently been going on behind his back for years, shook his head again. "But if she's been working against Gingham and all of them for years, how come it was Dermot that leaked the information we were digging up to the _Daily Prophet_, and not her?"

"She wasn't expecting anybody to be after the information, so she didn't try to hide it in her flat. Dermot broke in and took it from her." Ron scooped his hair back so that parts of it stood up in soft, red spikes. "Problem is, we've only just received confirmation of that because he waited until she was on her way to the states until he did it. We thought he somehow got the information from your place — which, trust me, was a bloody nightmare — when all along, all he did was swipe it straight off of Melinda's kitchen table."

It was a long-shot that Dermot would even recognise Melinda's work and know enough to steal it, but Harry didn't put it beyond him. The man was military trained in reconnaissance and intelligence. Surely he'd spot another person gathering intelligence. That much, at least, made sense to Harry.

"So Melinda knew that Ginny and I were working on it," Harry surmised. "Why didn't she come to us? We could have helped."

"That was the Department's decision. We were simultaneously running two investigations, seeing if you and Ginny could come up with anything Melinda couldn't." Ron shrugged. "It's not always the most convenient way to do things, but sometimes it pays off."

"And did it?"

"Well, Gingham's on his way to Geroodhain right about now, so it did. Through a happy accident, thanks to Dermot Raine." Ron ran his hand through his hair again. "Never thought I'd be saying that. But it leads us to our second point. Dermot Raine."

"Was the Department of Mysteries involved in that, too?" Harry asked immediately.

"Not directly. They tried to be, at the beginning, but we didn't quite agree about how to go about things." Now Ron's frown was genuine and he took a sip of the whiskey. "They wanted to send Ginny to New Zealand."

"What?"

"They didn't want anybody that could convince the Witch Hunter to come to our shores. So they wanted to get rid of Ginny, as it were. Well, I talked to Bill about it, and the agreement was unanimous: we told them to stuff it."

The thought of Ginny being all the way in New Zealand, so far away, made Harry uncomfortably hot. He shifted a bit and frowned. "If the Department of Mysteries wasn't involved with all of that, why were they down in the sewers with the rest of us, then?"

"Hermione contacted Melinda because she thought — almost rightfully — that we were in over our heads. Thankfully, you and Ginny incapacitated Dermot on your own, so the Tunnel can take points for that victory — "

Harry, who didn't give a newt's eye about points, as long as Ginny was fine, just scowled. But Ron wasn't done. "So Hermione used that pamphlet she charmed from the stadium and tracked us, then she and Melinda Apparated down to join us. Lucky they did, too — I'm told Hermione had to stop you from outright kicking Dermot to death."

The thought of doing so had crossed his mind.

"So what now?" he asked. "Is Melinda heading back to work for the Department again? Is she dropping out of the tournament?"

"Oh, no," Ron said absently. "I think she told Hermione that she's turning her Unspeakable badge in and sticking to the Typhoon for good. Said something about finally finding the right team. As we speak, she's off giving Chris and Tracy a very limited rundown on what's happened — we're telling Bear the whole story, of course, can't have him running around Obliviated. Can't stand Oblivators Lockhart did to himself — but we've informed Chris Gingham of Ginny's true identity."

"Good to know," said a new voice.

Harry and Ron both twisted around to see Ginny standing in the doorway, still holding her hotel key card. She looked as pale as Ron, though there was no bandage hiding most of her face. Her left arm, however, was in a sling. She had probably been forced to swallow at least a gallon of knitting concoction, though Harry doubted it had done much good. She held an icepack, forgotten, in her other hand. For her knee, Harry remembered.

"So am I still employed by the Nottingham Typhoon?" she asked Ron, ignoring Harry altogether.

"Probably." Ron shrugged. "Chris Gingham's always raving about how they've got the best promoter in the league — Melinda told me she thinks he's going to promote you, actually, to manager — "

"Great," Ginny said, but she didn't appear enthusiastic. She shrugged her good shoulder. "That's good to know. Do me a favour, Ronald?"

His full name made Ron frown. "What?"

"Get out? I want some time with my boyfriend."

"Reasonable, I suppose." Ron tossed back the rest of his whiskey and rose from the table. "If the two of you have any more questions, we'll be finishing up the paperwork this entire mess has caused, just next door."

"Yeah, thanks," Harry said absently, his gaze never leaving Ginny. Once he heard the door click behind Ron, he rose and crossed the kitchenette to Ginny. "Are you okay?"

In return, she wrapped her good arm around him and leaned against him. "My shoulder and knee hurt. You?"

"Got my hand back — you can hardly tell Fred and George's project tried to eat it — " Though he wondered if he'd always bear those faint scrapes on his right hand. He had enough scars to put him in Moody's Hall of Fame Aurors' Club, so what was a couple more?

Ginny laughed hollowly. "Might not want to tell people that at the next benefit you attend for the shop."

"I'll keep that in mind. But you're truly okay?"

Ginny mulled over the question for a minute, then unexpectedly flashed him a brilliant smile, one so full of light that it almost hurt to look at. "I'm going to be," she informed him. "Right now, though, I'm kind of tired of thinking."

"Well, I've got an idea of something we can do that requires very little thought at all — " His smile was pointedly lewd.

Instead of flirting back, she frowned, puzzled. "Are you sure you're up for that? You hit your head pretty hard?"

He gave her a quizzical look. "You can play Exploding Snap with a head wound."

She twitched backwards and blinked at him. "You were talking about Exploding Snap?"

"Sure." His pause was purely for dramatic effect. "What were _you _thinking of?"

"I — " Ginny broke off and laughed, dropping her good arm away from him and stepping back. "Never mind. I've got a deck in the room. I'll just go fetch it — " She broke off at tapping from the window; both looked over, immediately recognising the hassled barn owl as belonging to Chris Gingham. "Apparently not. Bet you five Sickles that's for me."

"Looks like our lives aren't our own," Harry observed. "Again."

* * *

Four days later, Harry stood in the middle of the tiny kitchenette, listening for noises—for sounds of somebody rifling through the newspaper, or comparing Quidditch teams in the tournament, or even chatting casually about the weather. But there was nothing but silence, save for the comfortable whistle of the tea kettle, and his own breathing, of course.

It was an absolute miracle.

He smiled as he rummaged around for the chunky blue things the hotel called coffee mugs. Yanks didn't prefer tea, as a rule, but he'd scrounged some up, mostly out of desperation. He'd have preferred something stronger. The match determining the winners of the American Quidditch Open was only two hours away. For the first time in ages, it looked as though the Brits might have a chance at sending the yanks packing in shame. It sent a pleasant thrill through him as he sipped his tea.

A pile of letters sat on the counter, waiting to be read and replied to. Most of them were business, though a couple were short notes from friends or Tunnel members. Harry had no doubt they'd be congratulating him in the victory against Dermot. He wasn't sure how he felt about that, so he ignored them and instead began to browse through the business letters.

He gave Ginny an absent look when she wandered in, no doubt just back from a meeting. "How'd it go?"

"Bunch of gladhanders who wanted to suck up to the girlfriend of the great Harry Potter. About what I expected. Chris is really enjoying touting that angle."

Ginny poured herself a cup of tea and leaned back with it to study him. Wrapped up in a report of one of Emma D. Barnaby's charities changing headquarters, he didn't notice. "Where is everyone? I know Tara, Euan and George went out to catch a matinee before your match, but where are the others?"

"Haven't the vaguest idea." Harry looked up to smile fully. He cocked his head. "Would you listen to that? Quiet."

She laughed. "Missed that, have you?"

"No bickering, no planning, no betting on matches. Just quiet." Harry gave a dramatically blissful sigh. "No bloody chaos."

Ginny just laughed again, and watched him as he continued to peruse the letters. She moved over to the counter, peeled off her robes to reveal Muggle jeans and a button-up shirt beneath them. He gave her no more than a half-hearted notice.

At length, she picked up her tea, put it hastily aside, stretched. Harry didn't pay her any mind.

"Harry?"

"Hmm?" His mind was full of the investment ideas Charlie Weasley had sent him about the Claw, Tooth and Scale Dragon Home. He didn't look up, and therefore missed the catty confidence that slid into her eyes.

"Now that all this bother and fuss with Dermot's out of the way, I've been doing some thinking."

Was investing in a dragon stable even a good idea? Harry had no idea. He'd have to ask somebody who wasn't a Weasley, and therefore wasn't swayed by family loyalty. Puzzling that over, he lifted an eyebrow at Ginny. "About what?"

"Well, to be honest, I think it's time we had sex, don't you?"

The coffee mug slipped right out of his hand. "I beg your pardon?"

She met his gaze evenly. "You heard me."

He wasn't sure he had. All thoughts of Charlie Weasley's dragon stables slipped out of his mind. In fact, every single coherent thought he'd ever had raced away, leaving him blank and staring. He could only hope that his jaw wasn't dangling. "I don't think I heard you right," he said, the words heavy and foolish in his mouth. "Did you just say that you think it's time we had _sex_?"

He expected her to laugh uproariously and tell him it was a joke. Some small part of him hoped for that, but that part was currently drowned in the shock the rest of his system suffered. And still there was part of him, the part just behind his sternum, that began to thrum quickly between hot and cold.

But she didn't laugh. Instead, she met his eye. "Yeah. I said that."

"But...but..." He sputtered for a minute, blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "I've a match in two hours—"

Amusement lit up her eyes. Ignoring the shattered coffee mug, she took a step toward him. Blocking him in. "Oh? You think it'll take that long? Confident, are you?"

Somewhere deep—perhaps very, very deep—inside of him, there was a witty rejoinder to that comment. The majority of him, however, could do little more than hope his tongue didn't start wagging, especially when she took another step.

"I, ah, er—" He wished there were words. Where were the words? They'd never failed him quite so spectacularly before. Belatedly, he realised that his jaw was swinging gently in the breeze. He levered it shut.

Ginny, on the other hand, didn't seem bothered. Her eyes never left his as she flicked her wand at the pile of smashed ceramics and the tea that had seeped, unnoticed, into Harry's socks. Immediately, the cup sprang back together, and was quickly Banished to the counter. Harry didn't pay it a single bit of attention. He was too busy fighting that rumble beneath his sternum, a rumble that he was quite certain could become a full-forced growl if he didn't put a lid on things soon.

But Ginny didn't seem to know that. She took another step forward, smirking with that impish grin that he had always found so attractive. Right now, however, it made his throat feel as dry as the Sahara. He cleared it, and it sounded to his dazed ears like a rusty, broken engine trying to get one last spurt of life before danger hit.

"You know," Ginny said, slinking a step closer and sending his blood pressure rocketing through the roof like a rogue Bludger, "it's entirely possible that I'm using you."

"U-using me?"

"I have a lot of issues. I could be using you to get past them."

He couldn't say he minded. Or at least, he didn't think he did. He couldn't tell. His thoughts were a blur.

"And it might take a while," Ginny finished, "so I really hope you don't mind."

He meant to say "Do your worst." In fact, the words sat in the front of his brain, ready to be formed into actual physical sounds. But what came out instead was somewhere between a croak and a growl. And he moved forward, closing the distance between them. He might have caught her off guard, for she chuckled a bit against his mouth before she became busy with other things.

The next few minutes passed quite enjoyably, though to his honest opinion, they seemed a bit of a blur — a very happy blur in which they were so entangled in each other that Harry wasn't quite sure where one ended and the other began. With barely a thought to the last time this had happened, he fumbled for the buttons on her shirt — felt her fingers doing a much better job undoing his own shirt buttons — he began to work his way down her neck, nibbling and —

"Ahem."

Harry leaped back as though somebody had dumped scalding potion over the both of them. A sense of dread accompanied him as he swiveled his head about. He wasn't disappointed: standing in the open door of the hotel room, gaping in shock, was what seemed like the entire Weasley family. Realistically, his mind told him that it was only Bill and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, but they were the three last people on earth that he wanted to see right now. They eyed him and Ginny, caught somewhere between skeptical and thoroughly disapproving.

Before any of them could say anything about the fact that Ginny's shirt flapped open in the breeze, voices from the hallway drifted in.

"Not surprising the Arches lost—who names a team after Arches?"

"I expect that they were named for the St. Louis Arch – it's a famously large Muggle landmark here in the states – "

Inside the room, Mr. Weasley was a delicate shade of pink. "Er, afternoon, Harry, Ginny—"

The greeting seemed to startle Mrs. Weasley into action. "Ginny," she hissed at her youngest, "your _shirt_ – "

"What? Oh, right," Ginny said blithely, though the tips of her ears were just as red as her mother's. She hastily began to fumble with the fastenings Harry had undone in his ardor.

Harry's face, he was sure, was flushed geranium red as he cleared his throat and attempted not to look at the Weasleys as though he hadn't been about to shag their daughter on the kitchen floor. "Er, have a good trip? Mr. Weasley? Mrs. Weasley? Portkey get off all right?"

Though it was torture to meet the Weasleys' eyes, he made sure not to look at Bill, who he was positive looked absolutely capable of committing a nice _Avada Kedavra _on the spot.

Mr. Weasley, on the other hand, looked as though he'd like nothing more than to escape this situation. Looking a bit desperate as he clutched his hat in front of him, he opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by the sound of Ron elbowing his way into the room.

"If you're going to build a giant landmark," he was saying to Hermione and the twins, who'd followed him in, "why not make it something useful, like a Quidditch stadium or – hey, why's Ginny messing with her shirt – "

He trailed off and his gaze locked on Harry's. Behind him, the twins arrived at the same conclusion if their identical stony glares were anything to go by.

Faced with two mortified parents, four angry brothers, and one traitorously amused Hermione, Harry wondered seriously, not for the first time in his life, if he were about to meet his end. He wished that his wand wasn't sitting on the counter, a very dangerous three feet out of reach. He was very aware of the fact that he faced a clan of Weasleys wandless, with his shirt very tellingly open to the waist and his hair a sight more rumpled than usual.

Ginny cleared her throat beside him, startling him into fully looking at her. The moment he did, he regretted it. His heart betrayed him by pounding more strongly than ever, sending that pleasant rush of blood to his head; she was just as rumpled as he was, very sexily so, that red hair falling out of its prim hairstyle. Beneath the freckles, her skin was flushed. He found it safer to stare at the floor.

"Well," Ginny said, her voice falsely bright, "this is awkward, isn't it?"

Harry's gaze moved to his wand, then flitted back to the Weasley brothers. If he jumped for it, would he be able to counter any of the curses they were destined to fling at him?

He doubted it.

"Yeah, Harry," said one of the twins, whom Harry couldn't tell apart in their stony countenances. "Mind telling us what exactly is going on here?"

Ginny scowled and rounded on him, but to everybody's surprise, Mrs. Weasley whirled on all four of her boys. "You lot – out!"

"But, Mum – "

"Gone! Out!" Obviously reluctant, Ron and the twins began to slink from the room. Their glares promised horrible, foul things to Harry—at a later date, when Mrs. Weasley wasn't there to protect him. Mrs. Weasley made shooing motions with her hands. "I'll handle this myself! I mean that, William Arth— "

Bill had been glaring ferociously at him, but at Mrs. Weasley's admonition, he looked pained. "Mum —"

"Get! Shoo!"

Once all four Weasleys—and Hermione—had slunk from the room, Mrs. Weasley finally rounded on Ginny and Harry. "And what," she demanded in a voice slightly higher than normal, "is the meaning of all this?"

Harry stared desperately at the icebox, entreating it to swallow him whole. When it didn't, he took a deep breath and began to fidget nervously with the knob on his watch. "Mrs. Weasley—"

"Oh, no you don't!"

Harry jumped, but Mrs. Weasley hadn't been addressing him. She was glaring instead at Arthur, who'd been trying to sidle from the room after his sons.

"This is your daughter, too!" Mrs. Weasley screeched at him. "You will deal with this!"

Arthur twisted his hat between his hands, eyeing the door as though it were a particularly scrumptious-looking pumpkin pasty. "But, Molly—"

Molly, however, had moved on to other things. "Ginevra Molly Weasley," she snapped, and Ginny, despite herself, jumped at the use of her full name. "Explain yourself!"

Now it was Ginny's turn to look pained. She picked up Harry's tea, discovered the mug empty, and picked up her own instead. Perfectly blasé. Harry was torn between wishing for even an ounce of her decorum, and wanting to warn her not to poke at her mother. This could not end well. "I'm nearly twenty three. I'm a bit old to have to explain myself to you, don't you think?"

He'd never seen that shade of eggplant rage on anybody's face before, not even when the twins had locked Ron in the shed with one of their inventions just before sixth year. He stared with morbid fascination at Molly's face as it began through a kaleidoscope of red—angry umber to furious beetroot, to outraged puce. Somewhere between beetroot and puce, he got that distinct feeling that he should run away, far and fast. But Ginny just held her ground, her face perfectly bland. The only sign of fear was that the coffee mug in her hand shook.

Though, come to think of it, that could have been anger, too.

Mrs. Weasley seemed to be beyond the capacity for coherent sentences. Staring accusatively at her daughter, she spluttered. "Sex before marriage — an unmarried woman — scarlet — "

"I've had sex before, Mum," Ginny said at her most bored. "For that matter, so's Harry."

Harry shot her a desperate "don't drag me into this!" look.

Mr. Weasley saw an opportunity to flee and cleared his throat. "Harry, might I have a word? Er, out there?" He pointed toward the hallway, where Harry knew for a fact that the other four Weasleys were waiting to ambush him.

Still, one look at Mrs. Weasley's face had him deciding. He practically ran from the room, but he still heard Ginny mutter, quite clearly, "Coward," as he retreated behind Mr. Weasley.

Sure enough, Ron, George, Fred, and Bill stood in the hallway, their arms crossed over their chests and their expressions homicidal. Harry was positive that if Mr. Weasley hadn't been there, they would have tackled him straight-off. But Mr. Weasley just cleared his throat loudly. "Nothing to see here, boys. Move it along."

Once it was just Harry and Mr. Weasley in the hallway—neither quite sure where to look—Mr. Weasley cleared his throat again. An eternity of thoroughly uncomfortable silence stretched between them as both men shifted their feet and avoided each others' eyes. Through the door, they could hear Mrs. Weasley and Ginny shouting at each other, though the door muffled the words to unintelligible rants. Finally, Mr. Weasley said, in a strained voice, "I had no idea the two of you were even dating."

"Er, for several months now, sir."

"Oh. Oh, right." Mr. Weasley finally seemed to realise that he was mutilating his hat. He set it, wreckage and all, atop his head. "And what are your, er, intentions toward her, may I ask?"

Where was a Death Eater to kill him when he needed one? Harry glanced wildly at the walls, wishing to be anywhere—_anywhere_—else on earth but here. Meanwhile, his mind raced, thinking of something, anything to say that would keep Mr. Weasley from killing him on the spot. When his mind stumbled upon it, he actually jumped, though it was the truth. Before he lost his nerve, he blurted it out.

"Well, sir, I think I might, er, love her."

He stood, tense though he didn't have his wand, ready for an attack that never came. For Mr. Weasley, after staring inscrutably at him for several long moments, threw his head back and roared with laughter. Harry gaped.

"Really, son," Mr. Weasley said, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes as he continued to chuckle, "do you need a glass of water or something?"

"Er, what?"

"You look a bit surprised, that's all."

Harry opened his mouth to say something, but before any sound could emerge, raised voices from the hotel room beside them interrupted him. "I am NOT a scarlet woman, Mum! And just for your information, I will have sex with whomever I choose, whenever I choose!"

Very abruptly, Harry had a hard time meeting Arthur's eye all over again.

As if the universe were finally taking pity on him, his watch—unbeknownst to him, nearly an hour ahead by all his nervous ministrations to it—began to shrill. "Locker room!" Harry practically shouted, grateful for any excuse whatsoever.

Mr. Weasley seemed to have an equally hard time meeting his eye. "Er, right, well, good luck, then, I suppose. I'll just, ah —"

"GINEVRA MOLLY WEASLEY!"

"—Go that way, I suppose," Mr. Weasley finished. And without meeting Harry's eye yet again, he hurried off.

* * *

The utter, bone-crunching and deep mortification had not worn off by the time Harry reached the Typhoon locker room. Still a bit dazed, he waved aside the security wizards posted outside the room, and wandered inside. His head felt a bit foggy, as though somebody had hit him with a brain-fuzz charm.

Thankfully, most of the team hadn't arrived yet. He saw only Tad, suiting up on the men's side of the room, and Tracy, who seemed to be absorbed in a novel of some sort, already robed and ready.

""Lo Harry," Tad greeted, giving him a nod. "You're early."

Harry made a grunt that Tad took for a greeting or an assent.

"Did you catch anything on the wireless last night? I swear, these yanks don't understand the value of a good wireless programme…"

"That's because they've all got tellies," Tracy called from the women's half.

"And what's the point in that? If you have to watch _and _listen, you can't do the more useful things that need to be done." Tad rolled his eyes at the absurdity of it all, and then peered hard at Harry. "Oi, mate, you all right? Get attacked by fans on the way here? Your shirt's undone."

Harry glanced down fuzzily, sighed. "Curse it," he swore without rancor and solved the matter by simply peeling the garment off.

"Seriously, though, are you all right?"

"Ginny's parents are here." Harry tossed the shirt aside and crossed not to his locker, but to Tad's. The other man watched as he reached in and pulled out the Beater's Bat. Tad had etched his wife's name on the handle, below the tape. He took this now as Harry held it out. "Please."

Tad shifted the bat, his eyebrows low in confusion. "What?"

"Beat me with it round the head a few times, will you? Put me out of my misery."

"Her parents can't be that bad, can they?"

Harry just stared at him.

Curiosity had Tracy coming round to the men's side of the room, her book forgotten under one arm. "What's all this about, then?"

"The in-laws have arrived," Tad informed her.

Harry looked pained. "They're not my in-laws. Which may be part of the problem, as had they walked in ten minutes later, I might be the groom of what the yanks call a shotgun wedding."

Both Tracy and Tad stared at him. Tracy understood first; her face cleared and she hooted with laughter. "Got caught doing something a bit naughty with Miss Weasley, have we, Potter?"

Harry turned away from them both and finally yanked open his locker. He reached past the grey uniform and yanked out the trousers. Without a single thought to modesty in front of Tracy, he swapped them for his own slacks. "I have to admit, their timing was spectacular. And of course, they had not only her eldest brother with them, but the twins and my best mate, too. It was like a friggin' comedy, except somebody forgot to warn me that I'd be at the butt of the joke."

"Oh, come off it," Tad told him bracingly. "In a few years, they'll have forgot all about it."

"I highly doubt that," Harry muttered darkly. He reached for his undershirt.

When the locker room door opened again, all three turned as one. Ginny entered, still a bit red from her fight with her mother. Her gaze immediately locked on Harry's, ignoring Tad and Tracy completely. "Do you have a minute?"

"I have a few of them, as most of the team isn't here yet." And Harry was glad to escape Tracy and Tad's speculative looks. Hastily grabbing his over-robes, he followed Ginny from the locker room and down the hall.

"Well," Ginny said once they were heading down the hall, away from the security wizards and the press agents (Harry ducked his head and tried very hard not to look like himself). "That was certainly very awkward."

"You think? A little warning that your parents _might_ be dropping by would be nice next time."

Ginny pinked again. "Honestly, I had no idea they were coming. It was a surprise—the twins paid for a few days' vacation for them, and they wanted to see you play."

"Well, they saw _something_, that's for sure." The mortification was slowly fading to exasperation with both of them. "For Merlin's sake, we were close to doing it on the kitchen floor, and they nearly got a free show."

"I didn't seem to mind it before they arrived, now did I?" Ginny shot back, annoyance bleeding into her tone as well.

Seeing an alcove off the main corridor ahead, a perfect spot for talking, he aimed for it. And quickly backed away once he saw that it was already occupied. "Is there something in the bloody water in this place? What _is_ it with people today?"

Bear surfaced from where he had been wrapped around Stacy Harrows. "Get your own alcove, mate—"

Ginny hurriedly cleared her throat and grabbed Harry's sleeve. "Don't worry, we're doing that."

Harry hissed his irritation as she dragged him away. "He wasn't supposed to kiss her until after we've won the game, that was the bet —"

"Given the display we witnessed back there, I'd say they've been doing a bit more than just kissing. Here, this'll work. This team's gone home, nobody's using this room." And Ginny pulled him into the Bismarck Flickertails' locker room, long abandoned since Harry and the Typhoon had beaten the team. The lighting seemed to have been permanently turned off, but Ginny just waved her wand at the lighting sconces and they sprang to life. In the wincing candlelight, she studied him. "My brothers haven't hexed you, have they?"

"Your dad didn't give them the chance, and I'm smarter than you think. I escaped."

Ginny nodded, her face now tightly white. "Wise. And nice, not to see my boyfriend with an extra arm growing out of his head."

"Oh, they'll do a lot worse than that when they get to me."

Ginny didn't seem to have any reply to this. She just looked at him, her face still that odd white colour. And finally, the tiniest of smiles appeared. As though the sight of it cracked something in Harry, he began to smile back, then to grin, and finally to laugh. By then, Ginny was laughing alongside him—they chuckled so hard that they had to hold each other up—and finally slid bonelessly to the ground right inside the locker room door, tears of mirth streaming down their faces.

"Did you see Mum's face?" Ginny laughed. "I thought she would have a coronary on the spot—"

"No, I didn't, I was too afraid—but Bill—"

"Nice shade of magenta. Fetching colour on him, too—"

"And when Ron walked in, prattling on about arches or whatever?"

They laughed until their sides hurt, reliving the shocked faces of Ginny's family now that the fear was suitably far in the distance. Finally, as Harry dashed mirthful tears from his eyes and Ginny hiccupped, they leaned back against the wall. Ginny rested her head on his shoulder and, quite companionable, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

"How many years do you think it'll take for us to live that particular scene down?" Harry wondered aloud.

"Dunno, but they're expecting a wedding out of us soon."

"W-wedding?" Quite inexplicably, Harry felt his chest constrict as though a big fist had reached down and squeezed. He wheezed—which only made Ginny begin to snort with giggles.

"Your face!" she gasped, poking him in the ribcage and making him jump. "S'priceless!"

But Harry was fighting to breathe properly. "It's all a bit… soon, isn't it?" he asked, desperately hoping that the past twenty minutes had been nothing but a very bad, prolonged nightmare. "For a wedding?"

Ginny's giggles disappeared and she looked up at him earnestly, her gaze steady. "Well, my family certainly thinks we're sleeping together, and in their eyes, I suppose that means we're to be married. It'd be nice to oblige them, don't you think?"

For a long time, he stared at her, hearing the words but not quite comprehending them. A…wedding? Like the one Bill and Fleur had had years before, that he only vaguely remembered? Roses and dress robes and cake—though he wouldn't have minded cake, come to think of it—and saying "I do?" Though he imagined the thought of spending the rest of his life with Ginny should fill him with a certain warmth, all he felt was the cold steel of dread at the thought of yet another wedding.

Ginny, however, didn't seem to think so. She continued to study him levelly.

"Really, shouldn't we, ah, give this a bit more, er, thought before we begin thinking about things like commit—like weddings…" Harry trailed off, realizing with some disgust that he was about five seconds from throwing himself at her mercy and begging her never to mention the nuptial ceremony ever again.

"What, you don't like weddings?" Ginny asked, driving the nail home.

"It's not that, it's just—"

But Ginny grinned. "Relax, Harry. It's too early to be talking about marriage. I was just having a bit of fun at your expense—if you could have seen your face—"

Quite abruptly, the thing squeezing his chest to pulp vanished, and Harry stared, narrow-eyed at her. "Very funny."

But Ginny was giggling too hard to reply. She stopped when Harry's watch shrieked, making both of them jump once more. "Now I've really got to get to the locker room," he muttered, staring at the symbols on the edge of his watch. "Do me a favour?"

"Sure, what?"

"Keep your brothers from hexing me mid-match, please?"

"I'll do my best," Ginny promised. She walked him back to the locker room and left him with a send-off that would have made her brothers hex him all over again, though he certainly didn't mind. Feeling a bit warmer, though still a bit shaken, he walked into the locker room and hoped that he'd forget about this whole mess by the time he had to find the Snitch.

* * *

Ginny debated her options. She was more than welcome to stick alongside the team and accompany Chris Gingham and Tad and Frank's wives up to the family press box, where Chris had undoubtedly purchased champagne. But her family would be up there soon, officially serving as Harry Potter's closest relatives. And she just didn't want to face her family right now.

So Ginny sought out Tara and Euan, who'd made it back to the hotel suite and were watching the telly. Though she'd suspected a romance between them, they had nearly an entire sofa between them. Obligingly, Ginny dropped into the middle of it and helped herself to a Cauldron Cake. "How was the film?" she asked.

"Awful," Tara said just as Euan said, "Fantastic!"

Ginny raised her left eyebrow.

"Too many explosions, and the dialogue was crap," Tara informed her. "Giant robots coming to fight their final battle on earth? Come on, that's just dumb."

Euan, however, nearly bounced excitedly. Sometimes Ginny forgot that he was several years younger than the rest of them, but in his excitement he seemed at least a decade younger. "Not just any robots," he told Ginny with relish. "They formed those Muggle whatsits—"

"They turned into cars," Tara cut him off. "Utter crap."

Pecking from the window made all three look over. Ginny didn't recognise the bedraggled barn owl that tapped desperately, its feathers in heavy disarray. "Hooter!" Euan cried, leaping from the sofa and racing over to throw open the window.

Both Ginny and Tara stared as he quickly untied a grubby letter from the owl's leg. They'd been stationed in the states, in the Muggle for far too long. "You named your owl Hooter?" Tara finally asked.

"Yeah, what of it?" Euan wasn't giving them any mind; he was instead poring over the letter, ignoring the owl that pecked feebly at his sleeve. "I was twelve, and he was loud."

Tara and Ginny exchanged a look. "Er, no reason," Ginny muttered, thinking of a chain of American restaurants that emphasised certain assets of the female figure. "Who's the letter from?"

But Euan just smiled and headed to his room in the suite, leaving the two women alone with the blaring telly. After a minute, Ginny reached over for the remote, searched the buttons, and hit the power button. She then stowed it beneath the cushion, just in case her father came in. She didn't fancy having to explain to the hotel manager how the room's remote had become something as absurd as a shrink ray or something that Mr. Weasley could dream up.

"So…" Tara prompted, digging her elbow into Ginny's ribs "Now that he's gone, I have to know. Why're you red?"

Ginny had a brief and unpleasant flashback of her mother's red face. "No reason," she lied.

"Must be serious," Tara observed, "for you to try and hide it."

"Just a fight with Mum. The usual." This time her watch beeped and she remembered belatedly that she had agreed to meet Chris Gingham before the match. She groaned. "I'd better get changed into proper robes before Mum has another coronary."

Tara, claiming there wasn't anything good on the TV, offered to change into "proper" robes as well and accompany her. Figuring that her brothers couldn't kill her if there was a witness around, Ginny agreed. They made short work of polishing up and heading down to the pitch, where crowds were already amassing, practically quivering in anticipation of the championship game.

"It's nice to be the best friend of a woman dating somebody famous," Tara observed as they were escorted through security to the Typhoon press box.

Ginny squared her shoulders, ignoring the comment. "Time to get to work."

With the opening release only an hour away, the press box swam with people, all wanting to talk to Chris or her—and Tara, by association. By the time the five minute warning klaxon sounded, her head was full of names and promotional opportunities. Everybody, even American promoters, seemed to want a piece of the hot, young team from England. Ginny had a handbag full of business cards that she discretely handed to Tara to sort. The other woman understood American promotions much better than she did.

"Ginny!" Hermione appeared at her elbow, having entered without Ginny spotting her. She grinned around Ginny at Tara, turned back to Ginny. Her expression was pure mischief, something she had undoubtedly learned from Ron or Harry. "How're you holding up? Seen any of your brothers yet?"

"No, thank Merlin. Where're they at?"

"Last I checked, Fred and George were trying to smuggle something past security. Ron's around here somewhere, though, with Bill and your parents." Hermione, who'd always had the misfortune of being shorter than most everybody around her, craned her neck to look past a particularly tall wizard in front of her. "Which team did you say Harry was playing today?"

"The Phoenix Tail Feathers."

"They call themselves the Tail Feathers? That's an odd—"

"No, they're actually from Phoenix. In Arizona," Tara informed her.

Hermione mulled that over for a second. "Fitting," she decided.

Ginny heard something shift beside her sister-in-law and turned to see Ron, who still looked as though he might be capable of murder. He grinned fiercely at her and cracked his knuckles. "I caught the last match the Tail Feathers played. They're real fond of hitting Bludgers at the Seekers – "

"If you think Harry isn't good at ducking by now, you're a real git," Ginny told him coolly. "And besides, I started it."

The tips of Ron's ears went scarlet as Tara looked up in interest. "Started what?" she asked, looking from brother to sister.

But neither Ginny nor Ron had to answer, for a strong wind started around the stadium, dislodging empty Butterbeer cups and abandoned programmes into the air. It began to howl; the announcer cleared his throat. A perfect grey funnel cloud formed dead center of the pitch. "LADIES AND GENTS! ALL THE WAY FROM NOTTINGHAM, ENGLAND, OUR GUEST TEAM – "

With a crash, seven grey blurs hit the air, flying straight into the funnel cloud of wind. Instead of being thrown from their brooms, however, they formed a perfect V with Bear leading, waving at the crowd as they sped by.

"WINSLOW – HARROWS – WARREN – HARROWS – GREELEY – GIDEON – AAAAAND POTTER!"

The Typhoon press box exploded with noise. Fred and George, who had slid by security, threw streamers of grey, blue, and red into the air. Even Hermione shouted until her voice was hoarse.

When the Typhoon had completed their lap, the crowd began to thrum, reminding Ginny that they were the strangers here. Red and yellow began to appear in the crowd, wands sending sparks high into the air. Somewhere in the tallest bleachers, the chant began: "PHOENIX – PHOENIX – PHOENIX – "

And the Quidditch pitch burst into flame.

Despite herself, Ginny jumped back, and felt every Tunnel member around her do the same. Ron even had his wand up in the defensive position, but he very quickly dropped it back to his side, mumbling, "Sorry — reflex."

Judging by the fans' reactions, though, the pitch en flambé was expected. Sure enough, the announcer crackled back to life and shouted, "AND I GIVE YOU YOUR HOME TEAM, THE PHOENIX TAAAAAIL FEATHERS! THOMAS – MCGILL – PIKE – RAMSEY – KISHI – SCHAFER – AAAND SPIER!"

The Phoenix Tail Feathers burst out, streaks of bright red and brighter yellow, no more than blurs as they sped around the pitch. Sparks shot out of the back of their brooms, raining down in yellow and red flowers over the crowd as they sped by. Speeding over a flaming pitch, they'd made quite an impressive entrance, a great deal showier than Nottingham's tornado. The Typhoon didn't seem to notice; Ginny craned her neck and spotted them in a huddle, laughing (albeit a bit nervously—she could tell from the way Harry kept rumpling his hair, and Tad shifted his grip on his bat) and joking with Bear. Since their foray in the alcove, Stacy and Bear looked in better spirits than they had for the entire Open.

"Wow," Tara said as they all watched Frank put Mel into a mock headlock. Bear and Frank seemed to be squabbling for the honor of rescuing her, while the victim laughed at all of them. "They're goofing around like a bunch of first years. It's like they're not afraid of losing at all."

"They're not," Ginny said absently. "They're all just here for the fun of it."

The Tail Feathers, on the other hand, seemed to be in the arena solely for the purpose of winning. They glared across the pitch, as though insulted that the other team would dare have fun. Ginny raised her eyebrows; for a team that had battled its way to the top of the tournament through sheer ferocity, the Tail Feathers seemed... awfully young. Six witches and one wizard, all a great deal younger than Harry, who was the youngest member of the Typhoon.

Around the two teams, the crowd grew wilder as the announcer moved through the requisite pre-game announcements and promotions. Ginny watched as Harry's eyes slid over it, as bemused as he always was when faced by crowds. Finally, he looked up at the press box and his eyes found hers. He grinned—but happened to glance just to her left. She frowned when he quickly looked away, turning a delicate shade not dissimilar to split pea soup.

Annoyed, Ginny whirled on Ron. "Cut that out!"

He tried to look innocent. "What?"

"He's got to play Quidditch and he can't do that if he thinks you're going to jinx him every time he turns around! For the love of Merlin's little green apples – "

Bill, who'd been drinking Butterbeer to Ginny's right, choked. "Ginny — language—"

"You're not Mum, you know," Ginny informed him waspishly. She looked around and dropped her voice. "And just so the lot of you know, it's my business who I sleep with and when, so all of you can sod off, got that?"

Though her brothers looked grumpy, Tara rocked back on her heels and craned her neck to get a better look at Harry on the pitch. "Hmm," she said brightly in a voice patented to get Ginny in trouble. "This is just an observation, as it's apparently none of my business, but I just want to say that Ginny can't have slept with Harry yet."

Ginny gave up as every one of her brothers turned puce and Hermione perked up, finally interested in a conversation taking place near a Quidditch match. "Why not? How do you know?" she asked.

"If she had, he'd be a lot more relaxed now, wouldn't he?"

Ginny simply closed her eyes. This was turning into the game that wouldn't end—and it hadn't even started yet.

* * *

The Tail Feathers' reputation for brutality had been well-earned. As the home team and the ones actually from the country, they were quickly adopted as the crowd favourite. And it was a bit disconcerting to hear almost everybody in the stadium cheering when one of his friends took a particularly nasty hit from the Bludger. Only the Nottingham Typhoon press box remained silent when one of Schafer's or McGill's Bludgers narrowly missed Harry. And he practically heard the wince from the box when Mel took a vicious blow to the back of the head.

Not that it stopped her. Three hours into the match, and the Typhoon Chasers were leading Phoenix on a merry, well, chase. They were up by fifty points. It wasn't a solid lead, but it had the crowd booing whenever one of the Typhoon chasers neared the Phoenix goal posts.

Harry, meanwhile, was discovering again just how inadequate his Chasing ability was. He tried to keep up with the trio, but they were in top form—they literally flew circles around him.

"Just try to find the Snitch—we'll be fine!" Tracy called on one fly-by.

Harry didn't reply, as he was too busy doing a barrel roll to avoid McGill's malicious Bludger. He felt a breeze as it just missed his forehead, and spared the Beater a glare. The strawberry blonde woman just grinned and tossed him a salute.

"Bloody yanks," he grumbled under his breath. "The instant I get back to England, I'm never playing Chaser again."

"As if we would want you to!" Stacy called on her way by.

Harry just made a face at her.

But ten minutes of desperately seeking the Snitch told him that the Chasers were beginning to flag. They were essentially playing three-against-four without Harry to help them. Spier, the other team's Seeker, didn't seem to be searching very earnestly for the Snitch. Harry knew better; he'd seen the woman's gaze tracking the entire pitch while her teammates went for a toss-back from their Keeper.

Seeing the strain on Mel's face, he made his decision. Even while he sought out the Snitch, he made his way breezily towards the Tail Feathers goal posts. Behind him, he heard the play break out—Tracy stole the Quaffle, shot it to her sister—Stacy arrowed forward, passed it to Mel—Mel barrel-rolled and—

"I'm open!" Harry shouted.

Without missing a beat, Mel hurtled the ball at him. It hit his hand with a _smack_ that would ache for weeks. He tucked it under his arm, dove for it. With only a split second to aim, he threw it as hard as he could — it soared toward the middle hoop — Kishi made a desperate lunge —

"GOAL! SCORE ONE FOR POTTER, THE RELUCTANT CHASER!"

Harry heard the flashbulbs on the sideline explode with smoke, capturing the moment, but he didn't care. The journalists knew as well as he did that the goal had been his first in professional Quidditch.

"Great job!" Stacy flew by.

Tracy streaked by on his other side. "Now find the Snitch and let's go home!" She raised a fist in the air, and shouted: "For England!"

"For England!" echoed the rest of the team.

Harry's goal seemed to put more energy into the rest of the Chasers. They flew at the Tail Feathers with renewed vigor, manic grins on their faces. This caused the Tail Feathers' Beaters to double their efforts, though they aimed most often at Harry. Unable to keep the wolfish grin off his face, he ducked Bludger after Bludger, his eyes never pausing in their search.

"Oi, Frank!" he shouted as he dodged what had to be the fiftieth Bludger. "Mind watching out for a bloke?"

"Sorry, Harry," Frank grunted as he swatted the Bludger at Pike and Ramsey, who shrieked and split up to avoid it. "They keep hitting it at you — your head's so large, easy target. Can't be helped!"

Harry snickered.

The Snitch had been spotted thrice by the time the Tail Feathers managed to catch up in points, but each time it vanished before Harry or Spier could reach it. Spier seemed to be taking cues from him; she had given up on Chasing and was drifting over the pitch very much like he was, scanning every inch for a flash of gold.

Only, Harry thought, this was the strangest gold he had ever seen. The first time he had spotted the Snitch, he hadn't been sure that it was the actual thing. He was positive that the flash had been red, not gold. It wasn't until Spier dove for it that he realised it was actually the Snitch, and the Tail Feathers were going to win unless he acted fast. In the two times he had seen it since, Harry confirmed it: this Snitch was a bright, flashy red.

What on earth?

"The Snitch is red!" he shouted to Bear while the Chasers took the Quaffle to the other end of the pitch.

"Yeah—didn't you read the rule books, Potter? Finals game has a red Snitch!" Bear waved him away as the Tail Feathers Chasers came hurtling toward their half of the pitch.

"Now they tell me," Harry muttered, and scowled. First he was an informal Chaser, now he was supposed to find a red Snitch? What was the bloody world coming to?

It didn't help that the Tail Feathers' uniforms were a bright, flashy red, nor that the Typhoon had red stripes on their sleeves and across their chests. Harry paused above the Typhoon hoops, seeking out every piece of red and categorising it as best he could. Red sleeve—that was Tracy, zooming by—and there was the red on the sleeves of Thomas, the bold brunette that was surprisingly adept at Keeper. Pike, the Chaser with amazing accuracy, had hair that was a flaming red, not unlike the Snitch or Ginny's...

And when Frank went to back-beat a Bludger, he spotted more red than he ever wanted to see on the other man's underpants. "Wonderful," he groused. Finding a red Snitch was going to be next to impossible.

He didn't find it first, either. Proof of his sour luck surfaced once again when Spier, only a mere twenty yards away from him, went into a steep dive. Without giving any thought to the fact that it might be a feint, Harry swore and dropped flat against his broom handle. Up ahead, he saw it—the telltale flicker of red by Bear's left foot, though the Keeper was too busy watching his Chasers to notice. He swung around abruptly when the crowd, spotting the two Seekers in a head-on race to the Snitch, began to scream madly.

"Bloody hell!" Harry heard him shout as he dove out of the way.

Harry didn't care—he was gaining on Spier, flat as a giant's enemy against his broom handle. Wind streamed through his goggles, making his eyes water, but he didn't take his gaze off of the flitting Snitch. It hovered by the goal post, unaware of impending danger...

CRRRRUNCH!

Harry's fingers closed around cold metal just as his entire world splintered. With a great noise that had the fans screaming in horror, his broomstick cracked on the edge of the goal post and burst into a thousand pieces of wood. Shouting, he readied himself for the fall...

But it never came.

He glanced down, almost swearing to himself when he saw that his broom hadn't collided with anything. It was as whole as the day he'd received it from the factory. Splinters, however, sprinkled down from where most of Spier's broom was still stuck into the side of the goalpost. And Spier wasn't with it.

Horrified, Harry looked down, the Snitch in his hand forgotten. Spier plummeted, a blur of red and yellow robes as she hurtled toward the ground. Harry didn't stop to think – he let go of the Snitch and dropped into a vertical dive so steep and so fast that his broomstick protested. Harry ignored it—he kicked at the bristles, shoving it down faster, until the wind screamed in his ears like demented Banshees. In a trice, he passed the hurtling Spier, kicked his broom down with his back foot as hard as he could, and braked hard enough that he would feel it for days, possibly weeks.

But he didn't have time to dwell on it; Spier slammed into him, an unwieldy mass of barely conscious Seeker beneath her voluminous robes. Harry threw out an arm to steady her as she clambered on behind him and began to shake so hard that he could feel it quaking the broom. He could only be grateful that she seemed rather small.

"I think your broom's toast," he informed her.

"Figures," he heard her mutter. "Thanks for catching me."

Since he couldn't really see her face, he focused on getting them safely aground, amid the cheering and booing of the crowd. He felt the broom shift as she reached for something and, annoyed that she wouldn't sit still, steadied both of them.

"Here," and a hand pushed over his shoulder, holding something small, metallic, and bright red. "I believe this is yours. It's following us."

Harry took the Snitch, looking wonderingly at it for the first time. Unlike the Snitches he had caught before, this one _shone_, a very brilliant red glow. He almost had to look away from it, the light was so bright, so he closed his fingers around it and felt not metal, but... a gem.

"It's a gemstone!" he gasped to Spier, who clung to him as they drifted to the ground.

She actually threw her head back and laughed. "Of course. Championship games are played with Garnets. You caught yourself a Garnet Snitch."

Then they were finally on the ground, and she ran off, calling another "Thank you!" over her shoulder as she hurried to where her team huddled. Harry, meanwhile, looked wonderingly at the Snitch in his hand one more time, let out a whoop, and launched himself back to where the rest of the Typhoon clustered in the air, shouting and celebrating as they hugged and nearly wrestled each other from their brooms. He was welcomed into the fold and together they laughed and passed the Snitch around, hollering their victory. Ignored around them, the crowd began to chant and shout, not "PHOENIX – PHOENIX" but "TYPHOON! POTTER! TYPHOON!"

"Oh, I hate it when they do that," Harry said when he realised what the crowd was shouting.

"Too bad, mate." Bear wiped sweaty hair out of his eyes and raised a fist, laughing. "You keep doing heroic things, they're gonna treat you like a hero. It's a downside of that chivalry complex of yours."

Harry just laughed and took the Snitch back. Looking around, he scanned the crowd until he found the Typhoon press box, then sought within it. When his eyes met Ginny's, he grinned and held the Snitch aloft. She smiled back, and that odd, compressed feeling his chest had endured since she'd mentioned weddings vanished.

It looked as though he'd caught himself a Garnet Snitch, indeed.

**A/N the Second: Wanted to say thanks to everybody who made it to this point, and to apologise, as it seems I do every chapter, for how long it's taken all of us to get here. There is ONE more chapter left, a brilliant epilogue that will explain several things that happened a few chapters ago—why Harry went to Rosenheim, who Ginny was meeting that day he went—so please stick around for that.**

**Thanks, as always, to Shalli, who keeps me in my 'Strine and does me the honour of reading my chapters before they go up. **


	18. Epilogue: A Wedding Bejeweled

**A/N: So here it is, the long awaited epilogue. Why did Harry go to Rosenheim? Where was Ginny going when he did that? And whatever happened to those wedding invitations they slaved to get out?**

**Guess you'll just have to read to find out.**

**Oh, by the way, when I was rereading the story, I realized that I forgot to pay proper homage to Dee Henderson. She's one of my favorite authors, so I modeled the situation where Ginny fell through the floor off a situation in **_**The Truth Seeker**_**, right down to Harry getting punched. If you liked that scene, definitely check out The O'Malley Series because she's ten times better than I am, I promise.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own it, natch.**

**Epilogue: A Wedding Bejeweled**

The morning of what just might be the busiest day of her life dawned cool, bright, and welcoming. It was one of those days people called "crisp" and reminisced over years later. A breeze fondled gently at tree leaves just hinting at the burnished autumnal shades. Sun tipped bright and clear, sating the entire day to its fullest.

Ginny, however, only got to enjoy the weather in very brief snatches. She felt that cooling breeze, for instance, when she popped into the market in Ottery St. Catchpole to pick up extra frosting to cover the Chudley Cannons symbol the twins had "thoughtfully" ordered onto an otherwise classy wedding cake. Smelled the first hints of a lovely fall when she rushed to pick up the final floral arrangements. She felt sunshine on her face when she bossed Harry and George into rearranging all of the tables they'd already humped out to the meadow behind the Burrow.

She knew the instant she left that they played table wars, probably splintering the whole lot to tiny little bits, but as long as they were in exactly the spot she'd dictated and none for the worse, she couldn't be bothered to care.

She had far too many other things on her mind.

"You'd better hope the bride doesn't randomly decide to drop in on her future in-laws today," Tara remarked, aiming her wand at one of the white posts of the tent Ginny had ordered. Expertly, she shot a stream of sparkling gold and red at the top and walked slowly 'round the pole, wrapping it easily. "If she does, she'll wonder what's happened to the old Quidditch pitch. You said this was a Quidditch pitch, right?"

"Yeah, we used to pass our holidays back here," Ginny said absently. "Now Harry's gone and got it registered as an official pitch. We could hold league games here if we liked—with some enhancements, of course."

Tara repeated her ministrations with another post. A flick added a stately lion's head of burnished gold near the top. "Neat," she decided, looking up at her handiwork. "What's with the colours, anyway? And the lions? Not a very wedding-like theme, if you ask me."

"Our house colours. The lion was our mascot." They'd talked about their different schools—Tara had gone to a magical 'prep school,' as she'd called it, and she'd been fascinated by the idea of the four houses of Hogwarts. Though she could never keep them straight. "We figured we'd go with simple colours that we knew they both liked, and it is nearly autumn…"

"I get it."

"Yes, well, I hope it's not too much. We're a rather Gryffindor family." For what felt like the eightieth time, Ginny checked her watch. The moon ticked slowly closer to the sun, warning her that she hadn't much time left before Hermione's spa appointment (a "thoughtful" gift from Harry to "pamper the only pregnant woman in his life") ended and Luna would scoop her up and distract her with brunch. Though Ginny had spoken with Luna time and again, there was still a lingering fear that the other woman might thoughtlessly announce something about the wedding and that Hermione, being Hermione, would pick up on it immediately.

But it was a risk they'd have to take, as all hands were busy elsewhere.

Molly Weasley was cooking up a feast to rival any that the Hogwarts House Elves could produce with the help of Fleur and Angelina (Ginny, though competent in the kitchen, had been shooed off first thing). Ginny had Harry, the twins, and Bill in the back, setting up the tent and dance floor while she and Tara moved about with decorations. Somewhere, Euan Abercrombie and Terry Holicrest were out running last minute errands—collecting the band from Diagon Alley, checking on the bottles of champagne that Harry had ordered (Terry had valiantly volunteered to travel all the way to France). And Charlie was slowly rounding up all of Hermione's Muggle relations, as, despite the scars of working with dragons, he seemed the most normal of the lot.

"Wow," Tara observed, spinning a slow circle in the center of the dance floor. "This is… a bit of a change from this morning, wouldn't you say? It's already looking fabulous. Those floating candles are just the trick, I think."

They'd blatantly stolen that from the Great Hall at Hogwarts, but Ginny didn't bother to explain.

"And the flowers were a perfect choice."

Ginny blew a stray strand of red out of her face. Though her brothers were all in some broken down semblance of their Muggle wedding attire (the men had yet to put on their dress coats, though they all looked fetching in vests and the crisp black trousers), she had yet to change from her Muggle jeans and a baggy sweatshirt that proclaimed her loyalty to the Holyhead Harpies, a shirt that Harry had snarked on the instant he'd seen it. "I'm just amazed," she muttered, drawing gold thread upon the air, "that all of it came together. The last two days have been a madhouse."

"Absolutely."

"But a good madhouse," Ginny clarified. "Everybody's a lot more relaxed since…"

Understanding, Tara nodded. "Any news?"

"They've got more than enough to charge him for kidnapping Bear and Luna. As for the Witch Hunter stuff…" Ginny focused very hard on the gold thread, draping it from the base of the candles to form autumnal icicles. "I'll need to testify against Dermot in court, it looks like. My testimony is key to the case."

"Plus you'll have a strong influence, either way, as you were working on the Witch Hunter case for all those months, Tunnel or no," Tara surmised. There was a pause as both women let the work of nearly three years finally rest. "Either way, that bastard's going to be in prison for a long time."

"Yeah," Ginny agreed viciously. "And I hope he has a very _friendly_cell mate."

Tara let out a humorless bark of laughter. "Cold. I love it. Now, c'mon. Let's get the rest of these candles fixed up so that we can get Terry and Euan to float the bottles of champagne everywhere."

"I feel like a House Elf," Ginny grumbled, but they moved apart without another word, stringing gold thread along.

That is, until Tara cleared her throat. "Er, Gin? What'd you say your house mascot was, again?"

Ginny squinted hard as she struggled to align a few glimmering strands of red among the golden icicles. "It was the Gryffindor lion. Why do you ask?"

"No, ah, reason. But I think one of the guests just arrived early."

"What? Why?" Ginny whirled. "They weren't supposed to arrive until — FRED!"

Across the dance floor, Fred Weasley grinned. "Supposed to arrive until Fred?" he echoed, ignoring the fact that Ginny was very quickly becoming a shade of angry mauve. "That makes no sense."

He'd chosen to celebrate the day wildly, it appeared. A top hat of blinding lime green clashed horribly with his dark red locks, and even worse with the pinstriped suit of dark plum. He'd even found a cane that reminded Ginny of Luna Lovegood's old Gryffindor hat, but that wasn't what drew the strangled rasp of the very angry from her.

No, it was that he wore all this — and sat atop what looked to be a genuinely purple hippopotamus.

Harry and George, arranging tables around the edge of the dance floor, looked to be very wisely holding back laughter. From behind her, Ginny heard what sounded suspiciously like a masked snicker from Tara.

"What?" Fred asked innocently, patting his mount atop its massive rump. "Don't like my date?"

The dam broke; Harry and George collapsed respectively to a chair and the ground, gasping with laughter. "What happened to Angie?" Harry managed between fits, for now ignoring the fact that Ginny was going from mauve to maroon—a very dire sign indeed.

As if to answer him, there was a _pop!_behind Fred, and Angelina herself appeared, hands on her hips. "NOT funny!" she told him, then did a double-take at the sight of the hippo beneath her fiancé. "Oh, for heaven's sake! Put Neville back to the way you found him!"

"That's no fun," Fred muttered but, spotting the murderous intent in Ginny's eyes, he hastily climbed off the hippo. Knowing full well that he was likely tweaking a tiger's tail, he beamed at Ginny. "What's the matter, sister mine?"

"Guests — _Muggle_ guests — arriving — any minute — "

"Fine, fine. Spoil a bit of fun, will you?"

Ginny finally rediscovered the use of her legs, and began to jerk forward as if on puppet strings. Sensing danger, Fred dodged behind the hippo.

Meanwhile, Tara sidled up to Harry and George. "Why's the hippo purple?"

Both shrugged. "Probably seemed like a good idea at the time," Harry informed her. "Hope Fred's fast enough to dodge her Bat-Bogey Hex. That one's nasty."

"You've been on the receiving end of it?" Tara wondered.

"No, she reserves it for enemies and when she's hungover."

"Oh."

Fred had thus far managed to dodge the hex, though he was laughing too hard to last much longer. "It's just a joke, Ginny!" he called, even as he used the hippo-shaped Neville as a shield. "Really, just a simple enchantment—"  
"Then take it off of him! The Muggles will be here any minute — "

"But you have to admit, he's got a certain charm when he's like this — "

Neville the Purple Hippopotamus blinked sluggishly.

"Take it OFF him, Frederick!"

"No, Ginevra!"

Ignoring the commotion entirely, Angelina strolled away from her fiancé and his combatant. "Nice day, isn't it?" she asked the trio by the tables. "Perfect day for a wedding — hope mine will be this nice."

"If your fiancé survives, it might be," Harry mused. "I like the dress."

Unlike her husband, she had chosen a simple, classy ball gown in a deep red. "Thank you. My Muggle cousin lent it to me. So how's the decorating going?"

"Swell," Tara informed her just as Fred let out a pained yip.

"All right, all right! I'll change him back!"

All three glanced over at a loud crash. If any were surprised to see Fred and Ginny both strewn to the ground on either side of a very befuddled Neville, who wore a maroon tuxedo and a matching top hat, they didn't say.

"Doing okay there, Nev?"

Neville blinked a couple of times and finally looked down at his tuxedo. "This was black…"

"Fetching colour on you anyway, mate," George informed him.

"Was it just me," Neville continued, ignoring him completely, "or was I a hippo just now?"

* * *

While Ginny rushed frantically from one place to another, little more than a red blur, Harry decided that the best place he could be was out of the way. And he sought to make that happen by absently de-gnoming the old garden, very much like he'd spent his summer holidays doing.

Before long, Neville joined him at it. Like Harry, he'd shed the top coat and his hat so that he wandered around in shirtsleeves and maroon trousers. "Good idea, mate," he told Harry fervently, climbing over the low fence to reach the garden. "That girlfriend of yours is…" He trailed off and glanced over his shoulder, as if expecting Ginny to be there. Seeing her nowhere, he turned back to Harry. "Absolutely bonkers."

"Yeah," Harry agreed, also glancing around for Ginny. "She's…taken the project a bit seriously."

"I'm surprised everybody didn't fly for the hills after what she did to Fred."

"Me too. Though I think his hair will turn back to its normal…texture… in a couple of days. Or she'll likely change it back for the photos. Hermione won't want a goo-haired groomsman. I hope." Harry plunged one hand into the weeds and yanked it out. Dangling and kicking madly was a bright gold garden gnome. "Ah, here's the one that bit Fred that one Christmas."

Neville eyed the golden gnome. "What in Merlin's bloody beard?"

Harry lobbed the gnome like a Quaffle, watched it fly. "He bit Fred's ankle. Ginny's not the only vicious Weasley."

"What was that?"

Both men whirled guiltily. At the sight of a very annoyed Ginny standing just beyond the garden fence, Harry turned an awkward shade of puce. "Er — nothing. That is, it was — er — just a bit of — Did anybody tell you that you look nice today?"

She stared balefully. Beside Harry, Neville began to fidget.

"Really nice," Harry continued, stammering. Though he wasn't lying, fear sweat began to run. Ginny had finally found time to change into her own dress for the wedding. "N-nicer than I've seen you looking in awhile. Uh, beautiful—"

"Gorgeous," Neville supplied for him.

"Gorgeous! Yes, that's it! Thanks, Nev—yes, Ginny, you look gor—absolutely stunning."

Ginny's eyes narrowed dangerously. Both men straightened, but the youngest Weasley merely sighed. "If it weren't the truth, I'd be hexing you bloody, Harry Potter. As it is, I need you in one piece. Your guest is here. He's in the house."

"Oh. Oh, right. Thanks." Harry studied Ginny's face for a long moment, debating his next move. Bravely taking the coward's exit, he fled as fast as he could, but he still heard Ginny ask, "So what was that about me being completely bonkers, Neville?"

He was too far away to hear Neville's terrified gulp, but he could imagine it very well.

* * *

Ginny fussed with her hair as she entered the Burrow, trying not to smile broadly. Neville had turned the same shade as oatmeal—and had very promptly fled. She wasn't supposed to find it amusing, but like her ability to lurk, she enjoyed scaring men out of their wits.

It was a sick, sick talent, but as long as she had it, she might as well enjoy it.

"Harry?" she called, knowing he'd be somewhere in the house with his guests. The rest of her family had abandoned the Burrow, doing final preparations for the wedding. Ron and Hermione would be arriving in less than thirty minutes, and she needed to gather everybody up for that moment. Or just Harry. She wasn't sure which reception would go over better.

"In the den! Come on back!"

She poked her head in, smiled. "Hey."

"Hey." He stood by the windows with an unfamiliar couple. "Are Ron and Hermione here yet?"

She checked her watch for the eighty-first time. "Twenty minutes, give or take. I'm just stepping in to get away from the madness."

"Which you started," Harry pointed out. More than comfortable in the Burrow, he went to the side cabinet where Arthur Weasley kept the liquor, and reached for the wine. "Ginny, this is Dieter Reiss and his wife, Anja. Dieter's the Captain of the National German team. Dieter, Anja, my girlfriend, Ginny Weasley."

"Ah, yes, the woman who's captured the heart of the famous Mr. Potter." Dieter smiled and kissed Ginny's hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Nice to meet you, too, Herr Reiss." She grinned at him, liking him immediately. Harry handed her a glass of wine.

"Oh, Dieter. Please. My wife, Anja."

Anja returned Ginny's smile. Ginny, the only Weasley to have inherited her height form the Prewett side of the family, nearly had to crane her head back to look at the woman, who surely had to be a model. "So Harry tells us you are responsible for all the insanity happening today."

"It was his idea," Ginny returned immediately. "But I implemented a lot of it, sure. I'm glad you two were able to make it. Working with a Quidditch team has more than taught me the value of a player's schedule."

"When Harry came to visit us in Rosenheim, I will admit we were intrigued. But we wouldn't miss this for the world. It'll be my first wedding to, how is it you say…" Dieter bought himself some time by taking a drink, his eyes twinkling. "Host?"

"Conduct?" Ginny offered.

Dieter beamed at her. "_Ja_. Conduct. I wrote down my speech so that I would not have to say 'how is it you say' during the ceremony, so you have nothing to worry about, Miss Weasley."

"Oh, if you get to be Dieter, you'll have to call me Ginny," Ginny told him. "And we're just so happy you could come conduct the wedding—the normal magistrate would have blurted everything out and ruined the secret, so you are a godsend—you could just point at Ron and Hermione, declare them married, and we'd be happy. We really appreciate you and Anja coming out all this way."

"Like we'd miss a party. Especially one as unique as this. What are the plans for when the bride and groom come?"

"Oh, Hermione will cry," Ginny informed Dieter blithely. "And Ron will be shocked, but warm up to a night of dancing and partying with his friends rather quickly. Hermione's parents have been warned ahead of time. We'll get her in the dress, get her down the aisle, and hopefully dance until morning."

"I have a question," Anja announced. She turned to Harry. "You have a Quidditch captain on your team, do you not?"

"I do." Harry smiled, understanding her question. "But I had to pull a lot of strings to get the pitch in the back registered officially, so I figured better safe than sorry. I didn't know Bear well enough for him to conduct the wedding back when I was getting everything set up, and besides, Dieter, you're my first choice. Much more dignified."

"Makes sense," Dieter agreed, smiling.

Ginny tilted her head to the side. "Which makes me wonder—if any official Quidditch captain can conduct legal weddings on a registered pitch… are the Hogwarts captains able to marry off their fellow students?"

"You mean, I could have done this for Ron and Hermione years ago?" Harry asked her, mock-seriously. "That would have saved everybody a lot of trouble."

"But we're all legally able to drink now," Anja pointed out. "So the wedding wouldn't have been nearly as much fun."

"Too true," Ginny sighed. She finished her wine. "My brother and his wife-to-be will be here any second. I'd better get the handkerchiefs ready. Hermione tears up at anything these days. She's going to cry when she finds out what we've done."

"Oh, joy," Harry muttered, and began to look for the exits.

* * *

Hermione did cry. In fact, she cried buckets, it seemed, before Ginny and Molly scooted her along to put on her wedding dress. Ron was much easier; he accepted what Harry and Ginny had done with a stunned look, and tossed back the tumbler of firewhiskey Harry had handed over before he changed into his dress robes. He still looked a bit dazed at the altar, and Hermione a bit teary-eyed, but they exchanged vows with such sincerity that several members of the audience sniffled. Bride and groom had laughed at the honorary seat for Trevor the Toad at the head table, and Hermione had cried again during Harry's toast to the "newlyweds," even though he did get a reference to troll bogies in there.

Since Ron was famously Harry Potter's best friend, it seemed like the population of a small country attended his wedding. A small country of Quidditch players, that is. Harry skated the dance floor, grabbing a glass of champagne from a floating tray. Along the way, he spotted a few Harpies players dancing with what looked to be the entire reserve team for Puddlemere United while Captain Oliver Wood scowled dourly at the lot of his backups for flirting with "the enemy." Alistair Grokman, a relic from the days of Teddy Gingham Quidditch, danced with Celestina Warbeck (Harry noticed that Molly kept surreptitiously glancing at her favorite singer, trying not to stare, and that Fleur seemed to avoid that half of the floor entirely).

And the rest of the group, apart from family, seemed to be Tunnel members. Tara danced with Terry, while Euan twitched in time to the music, his arms around a woman who looked vaguely like Tara. Must be her sister, Harry mused, and wondered how long that had been going on.

"Oi, Potter," said a voice near him. Harry turned to see a vaguely familiar young man beaming at him. "Did you catch the latest England match? Brilliant catch on Jarvis's part, but he's no Potter."

So they'd officially replaced him on the national team, Harry mused. A month before, the news might have hurt; today he shrugged it off. He was happy with the Typhoon. "I was actually in the states. Good match, was it?"

"Flattened Switzerland," his companion confirmed. He then launched into a play-by-play with such enthusiasm that Harry pegged him as either straight out of Hogwarts or very new to the sport. Very likely both.

Oh, he realized as the kid went on, this was Gregory Perks. They'd met at Emma D. Barnaby's party ages before. The night that Ginny had come back into his life.

He blinked when a hand dropped heavily onto his shoulder. Bear, swaying a bit, grinned briefly at him before turning to Perks. "Shoo."

Faced with a Quidditch superstar like Barry Winslow, Perks did exactly what he had not done with Harry: he turned white, began to stammer, and very quickly fled.

"I've still got it," Bear said smugly, watching him go.

Harry nipped the drink out of his hand and sniffed it. It certainly didn't smell like grain alcohol, though Bear swayed like a drunk on a three-day bender. "Got what?" he asked absently.

"It. Whatever it is that makes the lads still wet behind the ears in our glorious sport fear me." Bear grinned and abruptly straightened, no longer swaying. "Some shindig your best friend here's throwing. Not even a Quidditch player, and he's got all of Portree here."

"And the Nottingham Typhoon," Harry pointed out. 'That's what you get when Ginny plans your wedding."

"Mighty handy, that woman is."

"What woman?" Stacy appeared at Harry's elbow, eyes narrowed suspiciously on the man that had been outed just that morning by the press as her new boyfriend.

Bear just grinned. "The hot redhead."

Harry, as a matter of routine, said, "Hey," in warning even as Stacy deduced, "Oh. Ginny." She patted Harry's shoulder. "She _is_a hot redhead."

Just for form, Harry affected a grumpy look. "She's my hot redhead."

"Don't I know it," Bear said with just a hint of wistfulness.

Stacy obliged Harry by punching her boyfriend in the shoulder.

"Speaking of which," Bear went on, unaffected (though Harry personally knew a punch from a Harrows twin felt rather like a semi-truck and a double-decker bus had mated, and their offspring had slammed into you at a dead run), "you might want to remind somebody else of that, mate." He nodded over Harry's shoulder.

Harry glanced over. Ginny had made her way from the dance floor, where'd she'd been dancing all afternoon, and was leaning on the bar, chatting with Luna Lovegood. Some unfamiliar bloke, probably a distant relation of Hermione's, leaned in close to her, leering in a way that made Harry's blood rumble threateningly.

Still, he maintained an even look. "Oh. Ginny can handle that."

"You sure? He might be drunk."

"The last time I tried to interfere, I got my hand broken for my trouble and missed the Snitch the next day. I'll let her take this one." Because it still twanged occasionally, Harry shook the hand in question and took an absent drink of champagne.

He barely hid his smile when Ginny gave the bloke her best simper—and promptly poured her drink over his head. Harry turned to Bear and Stacy. "See?"

"Incoming," Bear warned, grinning.

Harry turned to see the bloke curled up in a fetal position—and Ginny striding toward him with a glint in her eye. A warpath, he saw, too late. She barely acknowledged Bear and Stacy with an "Excuse me, I'm stealing Harry," before she banded her arms around him and kissed him so hard that he nearly reeled.

He might have heard Stacy mutter, "That looks like a good idea. Bear?" before his teammates slunk off. But he couldn't be sure. Every thought in his head had blissfully disconnected, leaving him in a wonderful fuzz.

And too quickly, Ginny leaned back. But, he noticed, she didn't let him go.

He blinked muzzily at her. "What the blazes was that for?"

"Branding you," she informed him. "Just in case anybody here had any questions."

The back of Harry's neck began to burn red as he remembered who "anybody here" was. Their friends, Quidditch stars, half of the wizarding population…her family. And he couldn't help but remember the last time her family had witnessed such an ardent kiss. And a great deal more, he amended as fear oozed a greasy, frozen track down to his stomach.

Ginny laughed. "Relax, Harry. My family likes you."

"When I'm not trying to shag their only daughter on the kitchen floor, they like me just fine," Harry corrected.

"There is that, but I don't care." When the first notes of a slow dance hummed across the air, Ginny grabbed a fistful of Harry's lapel and tugged. "C'mon. Let's dance."

Several dances later, a panting Neville came up to Harry, who stood at the bar while Ginny danced with Chris Gingham. "Good news, mate," he informed Harry, after he'd ordered a scotch and soda. "Movers'll be done today."

"Movers?"

"Yeah. Moving into my own flat. It's ready for me."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Not with Luna?"

"Nope." Faint pink appeared along Neville's cheeks, but he just shrugged, took a drink. "She's off to Fez. Rhodondins."

"At least it's not Nargles this time."

"Hear, hear." Neville clicked his glass to Harry's and both took a drink. "But you'll finally have the flat to you and Ginny, so—"

"Won't," Harry interrupted. "Her parents made her move back to the Burrow. Can't have her living in sin." He tried to keep the annoyance out of his voice, but Neville's sympathetic look warned him it wasn't a success.

"Oh, speaking of Ginny, my jeweler friend got back to me. I got the owl just before Fred ambushed me." Neville grinned ruefully down at his maroon tuxedo as he dug in his pocket, removed a small box. "Oddest commission he's ever received, he tells me. But easiest, too. Seems the piece _wanted_to change. Work practically did itself. Whatever that all means. He's owled you his bill."

"Fantastic." Harry opened the box and smiled. "She'll love this."

"She'll love what?" said a voice behind Harry.

He hastily stuffed the box into his pocket before he turned. "Oh. Nothing. You look radiant, Hermione."

She narrowed her eyes at him, but conceded with a small smile. "Even though I was the last to know, it's my wedding day. I'm allowed to look radiant. And nobody's allowed to say no to me. So you'd better dance with me."

"I have my orders," Harry said with mock regret, and passed his drink to Neville. He spun Hermione onto the dance floor. "So, how're you? And how's the sprog?"

She wrinkled her nose at the terminology. "We're both doing well. My parents may wonder about the birth date being so close to the wedding date—"

"They'll just be so happy to have a grandchild, they won't care," Harry interrupted.

When Hermione's eyes began to glimmer, he fought off a stab of pure male panic. "Oh, no. Not that. Don't do that again." Panicked, he scrambled for the handkerchief Ginny had pressed into his pocket for such an occasion.

"It's just, nobody's ever thrown me a _wedding_before. Not even a surprise birthday party, did you know that? And here I am, at my own wedding, and it's such a lovely wedding, and so perfect. Ginny really did a phenomenal job—I couldn't have planned it better myself—my own wedding—"

And to Harry's absolute horror, she burst into tears.

Desperate, he yanked out the handkerchief and shoved it into her hand, patting her shoulder awkwardly and wishing somebody would come to his rescue. Ron, Ginny, or maybe even Mrs. Weasley. He didn't deal well with crying women. They terrified him.

"Ginny and I wanted to do something nice for you," he said bracingly, looking desperately for help. "I mean, the pair of you are the closest thing I have to family, and Ginny loves you both. So don't cry. It's happy. I promise. A good thing, an absolute good thing. Not a tears thing."

Hermione smiled through her tears. "It's my wedding and I'll cry if I want—hey, what's this?" She bent and picked up a small object on the dance floor. Harry froze; the box Neville had handed him had fallen out in his scramble for the handkerchief. He didn't move even when Hermione wonderingly opened the box.

Then came her soft sigh. "Oh, Harry. Really?"

"It's not…" He began to squirm. "It's not _that_, exactly."

But she just lifted her eyebrows and pursed her lips in her best McGonagall expression. Even though that expression always made him feel mutinous and ten, he couldn't fight the relief that at least she'd stopped crying. "Then what is it?"

"That's…something I need to talk to Ginny about," he said slowly.

Suddenly solemn, she handed the box to him. "You should do that, then."

"I will. I just have to figure out the right time."

She glanced around at the people around them, all enjoying champagne, laughing and talking in groups. "No time like the present."

"With all these people around?"

"You could go somewhere quiet, you know," Hermione pointed out. Deliberately, she looked past the scads of people at the woods surrounding the old Quidditch pitch. "Though I'd be careful. Weddings tend to make people…randy. You'd probably stumble across something you'd rather not witness out here, come to think of it."

"I_did_see George sneaking away with one of your cousins," Harry admitted.

Hermione scowled. "I just hope he watches himself."

"Why? After the fifth bout of fireworks, Justin Finch-Fletchley said he could memory charm your family for us. He's got connections."

"Oh, I didn't mean magic. Belinda's just a man-eater."

"A what?"

Hermione paused, then shook her head. "Go find Ginny. She'll be in a really good mood with the wedding being a success. I think you ought to try your luck. And I'm happy for the both of you, really. Ron is, too, though he's more likely to grumble about it."

She had several good points, though Harry specifically called the fire-red shade of Ron's face when the Weasleys had walked in on Harry and Ginny. Still, he nodded. "We'll be back to wish you off," he promised. "Nice to see you as a married woman, Mrs. Weasley."

"Granger-Weasley," Hermione corrected instantly. "And I've been married three years, you git."

Harry grinned as he gave her a hug. "Ron's rubbing off on you. Merlin help us all."

He left her dancing with Neville and sought out Ginny. She'd finished dancing with Chris Gingham and had moved onto to Tad Gideon, laughing at something the giant Beater was telling her. He cleared his throat, "Hey, Tad, can I steal my woman?"

"Your what?" Ginny challenged as Tad laughed and said, "Sure, mate. All yours. I hear a meatball calling my name."

"I'm not property," Ginny informed Harry as Tad wandered away.

Harry just quelled any chance of argument by leaning down and kissing her. She softened against him. "Want to get out of here?" he muttered in her ear.

She leaned back to meet his eyes—and read their expression quickly. Desire warred with propriety in her own eyes. She nibbled on her bottom lip. "We can't leave—it's Ron and Hermione's wedding—"

"The bride just gave me permission to bail, and nobody'll miss us."

A glance around told her that everybody was either involved dancing, or just standing around talking. Indeed, nary a soul paid them a lick of attention. She gave a small shrug. "It seems you're right. What'd you have in mind?"

He leaned down to mutter in her ear. Though his suggestion would have made hardened witches blush, Ginny just pursed her lips and said, "Hmm. Inventive. All right, but we can't go together. People'll definitely notice that. I'll go now. You come to the Hutch in ten minutes."

Her eyes promised a great deal more than her words. Effortlessly, she slipped into the crowds and vanished from his sight.

It was going to be, Harry discovered as he checked his watch, the longest ten minutes of his life.

* * *

Harry must had left a window open the night before, so that a cool breeze drafted over Ginny's bare back, but she didn't move. Nor did she want to. Everything felt so blissful and loose and wonderful in a way that she wasn't sure she'd felt in, well, ever.

She snuggled closer to Harry, who hadn't moved since he'd collapsed beside her on the mattress, one arm flopped over her. He made a noise in the back of his throat that could have indicated hunger or pleasure. She chose to interpret it as the latter, and nuzzled even closer.

"Cold?" he asked in a slurred voice, the first thing he'd said.

"A bit. I'm okay, though." Wonderful, actually. "Are _you_okay? You're a bit…comatose."

Harry made the noise again, and shifted toward her. His green eyes were sleepy, and faintly amused. "Seems I'm okay, too. Though I'm really irked at your family."

Ginny blinked at him. They were as tangled up in each other as they were in his bed sheets, blissfully naked. And he was thinking about her family?

"Their timing really sucks," Harry went on, smiling drowsily at her. "Now that I know what they deprived me of by walking in on us last week, I'm seriously displeased with every single one of them. You're amazing, you know."

"You're not too bad yourself, Mr. Potter."

Well, she conceded in her head, leagues better than "not too bad," though she didn't want to inflate his ego overmuch. It appeared that Quidditch was not Harry's only natural talent. She hadn't once felt the all-numbing and paralyzing fear she'd had the first time they'd started to become intimate. In fact, her mind had gone utterly blank.

Thrilled with that fact, and him, she kissed his shoulder, rested her head against it. "Think anybody at the wedding's missed us yet?"

"Don't care. Anybody outside of this room has ceased to exist." Wonderingly, Harry traced light fingertips down her back. Her shudder had him smiling. "Still ticklish."

"Turnabout's fair play, you know." And Ginny dug her fingers into his ribs, where she knew him to be particularly sensitive. He writhed, laughing, and simply rolled on top of her, pinning her hands and fusing her mouth to his. Because she felt that instinctive pull in her belly, Ginny broke off the kiss and smiled at him. "Already ready for a second go-round? I'm impressed."

He leaned down to nip at her neck, smiling. To Ginny's disappointment, he levered himself off of her, moved toward the side of the bed. "Maybe in a minute. Got something for you first, though."

"Oh?" She sat up, hugging the sheets to herself.

"I think you'll like it. Where the devil are my slacks?"

Ginny glanced around the room and began to laugh. "Um. Look up."

He did so. "I'm glad you spotted that before we had any visitors. That would be a fun one to explain." Laughing, he stretched and grabbed the trousers from the lighting sconce, pulling them down. "Well, they had good company, it seems." From one of his fingers dangled her lacy bra. He grinned at her as he dug into his trouser pockets, then clambered back into the bed, something clutched in one of his fists. "So I…I didn't exactly have time to write a speech or anything—"

Ginny frowned at him. Were those _nerves_showing in his eyes? After everything they'd just done? What on earth did he have to be nervous about?

She couldn't tell. He wouldn't meet her eye. "I know you hear about all these complicated relationships where it's never the right time or whatever, but I'm not like that, and I don't think you're like that, either. We're simple people, right?" Now he did glance at her, just a peek from under his eyelashes.

Ginny's eyebrows drew together. "Uh, right." What on earth was he going on about?

"And this isn't anything binding, or to put pressure on you, or anything. It's just—well, here. See for yourself." Miserably awkward, he thrust his fist at her, and slowly opened it.

Ginny stared at the jewelry box, her mind absolutely blank. Was that…? No. It couldn't be. It was too soon. They'd only been official for a few months. And she remembered, very clearly, the way he'd paled when mentioning weddings and getting married.

It was like somebody else was controlling her hands, lifting her arms and using her arms like a puppet's to open the box. Stunned, she stared at the red gemstone, mounted beautifully on a gold band. "Harry, is this…"

"We've both been through a lot in our lives," Harry said quickly. "Between Voldemort and Dermot, we've both had it extremely rough. So I thought I'd give you this — this ring — as maybe a sort of promise. That I'm not like them." He took a deep breath, and began again, his words tumbling over in each other in their haste to get out. "That you, I don't know, can lean on me, and I can lean on you, and we'd have each other. It doesn't have to be an engagement ring because that's probably moving pretty fast, so it can just be a promise that we can be, uh, more?"

Incredulous, Ginny picked up the ring box and slowly drew out the ring, staring at it.

"Er, now is where _you_say something," Harry informed her, fidgeting nervously with his glasses.

"I…I'm speechless."

"Speechless in a good way?" Harry ventured.

She finally looked away from the dazzling ring and wrinkled her nose at him. "Yes, in a good way. Merlin, Harry, you got me a ring — it's absolutely gorgeous —" Carefully, she lifted it from its velvet bedding and brought it closer to her face. "This is the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen. Besides you, that is."

Red crept us his neck, delighting her. "If anything, I'm handsome, and I'm not really even that—"

"Handsome, then," Ginny interrupted, laughing. She leaned forward, ring still in hand, and cupped his face with her hands. "Are you asking me to marry you?"

The flush deepened. "Not – not if you don't want me to. I don't want to rush you. This can just be a promise, or a pretty ring—"

"If you want me to marry you, I will," Ginny interrupted, her gaze steady on his even as her heart galloped almost painfully against her ribcage.

His hands flew up to cover hers and squeezed. He'd stopped breathing, she realized, and so had she. "You — you will?"

She threw her arms around him and laughed. "Yes!"

His arms nearly crushed her in return. "You mean it?"

"I love you, Harry. That isn't going to change." Ginny shifted back, gave him a resounding kiss. "Hah. Now you're stuck with me."

Harry's grin was somewhere between sheepish and elated. "Could be worse," he said, and dodged her playful swat. "Looks like I'll get to do this for the rest of my life." He leaned forward and kissed her, deepening it.

After a blissful eternity, she nudged him back. "Nuh-uh," she informed him "You have to put the ring on me now. It's tradition."

"Is it?" He took the ring from her and held it up. In his hands, it looked extremely tiny. Obligingly, she held out a hand; he fumbled and slid the ring onto the appropriate finger. "Ah. The jeweler got your size right. Good. How's it feel?"

"Wonderful." She brought her hand up to admire the ring more closely. "What _is_that gemstone anyway? And are… are those wings etched on the band?"

Harry took her hand in his, studying the way the light played over the ring atop their joined fingers. "It's a garnet. And those are wings, yes. I, er, I sent the snitch I caught at the Open to a jeweler and had him transfigure a ring for you."

"Harry..."

"I just thought," Harry went on, still studying the ring, "this was the most important snitch I'd ever caught. This was the snitch I was holding when I looked at you and realized that I loved you. I know it's not diamonds, which are traditional, but I thought if it meant something…"

"Harry," Ginny said more firmly, and he finally met her eye. His own widened when he realized that she'd begun to cry, but she kept his gaze. "It's perfect. Absolutely perfect. And so are you."

"Well, I don't know about that." He fidgeted with his glasses. "I'm still a bit scrawny, and I've got that temper, and Hermione says I'm bullheaded —"

Ginny cut him off with a kiss. "Perfect," she told him. "And mine."

Harry's grin of relief nearly made her laugh. "All right. If you say so. So I'm yours, am I? What are you going to do with me?"

"Oh, I can think of a thing or two."

Later, much later, Ginny nuzzled against his back, her arms around him while he absently played with the ring on her finger. "Harry?"

"Hmm?" Drowsiness dripped from his voice; he was about to drift off. Still, he rolled over to toy with her hair. "What is it?"

She bit her lip. "Do you mind if it's a long engagement?"

"Why?" He lifted a brow.

"Well, with Ron and Hermione's wedding today, and Fred and Angelina getting married next month, I think I'm all wedding'd out. And you being a big Quidditch star, and me being universally loved by everybody, we'll probably need a big wedding." She grinned.

"We could just elope."

"My mum would _kill_us."

"Good point." Harry smiled. "Guess we'll just have to wait and have a big wedding." He paused. "We've got the rest of our lives, after all."

That being said, he fell asleep, his arms still around her. Ginny just grinned at him and shook her head. "That we do," she agreed quietly, and drifted off to her dreams, the Garnet Snitch glinting on her finger.

**FIN.**

**A/N The Second: It's done. Folks. I finally finished it. I'm sure there were times you wondered if ever would, and there were certainly times I did, too. In the time I wrote this, I switched majors, colleges, visited other countries, lost relatives, graduated college, got my first job, moved across the country. This is an epic fic in more ways than most because I can plot my entire college education through this fic.**

**There are a lot of people I want to thank. First, I want to say thank you to everybody kind enough to ever leave a review, even the ones that swore at me. :-P There are reviewers in particular I want to thank, some of those who stuck with me over several chapters, Buttamello and Shalli (more coming on these two), Wolf's Scream, sidlovesnancy1979, GeorgieGryffindor, PSTurner, SilentWasteland, LilyJames Addict, karma 11, 100-Percent-Harry-Potter-Obsessed (aren't we all?), Melindaleo, and several others (I'm sorry if I didn't name you here! You still have my gratitude!)**

**On the next level, I want to thank Leslie and Kat. They've seen this fic pretty much from its beginning, and they've provided a lot of ideas for it without knowing. And Kat's been my unofficial beta-reader, Aussie tester (she keeps me in my strine). Really, y'all should all be grateful to Kat. There were times I forgot about Garnet and she nudged me.**

**Lastly, thanks to my friends in real life, who tolerated the way my eyes would go foggy and I would forget them for days at a time when inspiration struck. Thanks to my mom, and my dad, who've never done anything but encourage my writing (Dad even gave me a plot once, hee). I love you guys.**

**Peace, y'all. **


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